My Friend Death
by Pepper's Ghost
Summary: 1973. A town was occupied. The government reacted. America once again faced a crisis. Historical Hetalia fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** My Friend Death

**Summary:** 1973. A town was occupied. The government reacted. America once again faced a crisis. Historical Hetalia fic.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything. The history here is interpreted by me. I have tried my best to fairly represent all sides of the engagement and how they were feeling at the time. If you happened to be one of the individuals standing in for a point of view (mainly Mr. Trimbach, Mr. Crow Dog, Mr. Means, Mr. Lyman or Mr. Wilson), I humbly hope that my fictional account of your story does not bring you distress. If the aforementioned individuals or their estates have a problem, feel free to contact me.

**Warning:** War, terrorism, violence, history, racism, human rights issues, drug references, slander, abuse of authority, religious problems, communism, stereotypes, and PTSD. Both human and country names used. Un-beta-ed.

X

**Chapter 1 – Good Morning Vietnam**

X

_To the Commanding Officer:_

_It is hereby decreed that one, Private A. F. Jones, be relieved of duty and be placed on the next transport back to America A.S.A.P._

_End Communiqué_

X

The post sorter couldn't believe it.

Never. Never in his entire time in this god-forsaken hellhole of an engagement had he ever witnessed such a thing.

Pvt. Jones had a letter.

Not a letter from home with some private address. Not a letter from one of the few home front support systems. Nope. Jones had a letter straight from the top. Now that was something.

Now there was only one problem…Pvt. Jones didn't have a mail slot…which meant he'd have to redirect the letter to the head office. He'd better not get reprimanded for that.

X

"A letter? For _Jones_? Are you sure?"

The letter was proof unmistakable. Wasn't there a code for this sort of thing? Not that the deliveryman was supposed to be concerned – it was just his job to pass it along down the line and to not ask questions. Questions could get you in trouble – but still! It'd be hard not to bring this one up at the mess hall.

A letter for Jones! Jones _never_ got letters. Ever. Even the guy who he relieved this position from told of the mysterious Jones. Goodness knows they weren't supposed to talk but Jones was something weird at the camp. Weird enough to not even have a mail slot.

He'd better spruce up a bit before bringing this phenomenon to the head honcho.

X

True to form, by that time the next day just about everyone knew Jones had a letter. As people talked – and on the sly mind you … because no one was really supposed to talk about these sorts of things – more and more odd stories were swapped. After all, the unit Jones was in was all but formally banned from having any reading material aside from letters and comic books.

Others even said that all mail into Jones's unit was censored like back in some antiquated war. Jones – the man everyone loved, the happy-go-lucky character who was everyone's pal – had more rumors and intrigue surrounding him then any other person anyone could think of.

Naturally conspiracy theories were prolific as to why Jones never got any news from the outside or why it seemed he had been here for so long. No one could even remember a time of him _not_ being here. Sure he got moved about but Jones and his lack of mail had always been a constant. Talk to him, the C.O. said, but tell him nothing of the home front past your early teen years.

The whole business was highly unusual and naturally lent itself to being talked about at any sort of gathering. It was truly amazing what one letter could do. Jones, the guy who was so isolated from everything but what they were doing here, had, at long last, a letter. A letter that would not be delivered to him but to the commander instead – as per orders.

Poor thing probably wouldn't get the letter after all the rigmarole, most thought. Yet all were keen to be proven wrong. All eyes on Jones, not that he knew (but he probably did anyway).

Everyone watched and waited and hoped. (And placed their bets.)

With the whole camp on a secretive high alert it really felt like the whole world was watching Jones.

X

"Looks like you're going home kid. Pack your bag."

Shocked confusion.

Everything was perfectly still and suddenly there was chaos. Clothes to wash – bags to pack. His stuff was everywhere and has been everywhere for _so_ long. He was just as entrenched here as ever but now – now it was time to pack up and leave.

To go home – a sweet relief. He could finally get out and figure out what's going on. To stop focusing on one thing and get back in touch with his roots, his home, his very existence and all that it meant to be him.

The bewilderment was palpable – even thought he was in a daze, he'd never moved so fast.

Jones had a one-track mind. Home, home, home. Home was the only thing now.

A mess of returning stuff. He had nothing but he still had too much – advice to impart, goodbyes, so much to do.

But there was no time. Never any time. Gotta move, gotta move. If it's not here, it's not his – not anymore.

The chopper was here – it's finally time.

The ground fell away.

Back home. Back to America. Back to himself.

X

**Author's Note:** This fic has been lurking on my computer since I wrote my senior thesis in college. It's rather embarrassing that it took so long but I think I've finally ready to bite the bullet and send it off in to the world. If this chapter is odd – well, our favorite Alfred F. Jones is in a bit of weird headspace at the moment. America entered the Vietnam War officially started around the end of 1956. In this universe, Alfred was probably front and center from the get go. This story starts at the end of February 1973. That's a long time for a nation to be away from their home. I'm most certain that it is not a new ploy for governments or people in power to try and manipulate a situation any way they can to try and get the national representative to deal with things in the way that they want them to be dealt with. If an information black out will get America focused on the task at hand – winning the war…or at least not losing the war – then that's what it will take. A forewarning now, we all know war is ugly in many senses of the word but the repercussions of war can often times be just as nasty. This isn't a nice fic. This isn't a fluffy fic. While this fic is not overly angst driven, it's gritty and stark and uncomfortable. The conflict that this fic explores still has festering wounds in America's society today that many chose to ignore or forget. Proceed at your own risk. Or stay and learn a bit, make your own judgments, and strive to understand a part of the past.

All chapters are pretty short for the aforementioned reasons.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Coming Home**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The flight was long.

Long and lulling.

Sleep eluded him.

He had to see everything.

Even if it was just the same endless ocean.

Ocean.

Ocean.

Ocean.

Endless waves.

He was in the cleanest things he'd been in for years.

A uniform crisp with starch reflected in shiny boots and polished buttons.

It felt weird.

All of it did.

He was exhausted. But he couldn't fall asleep. That would mean that it was just another dream. Another pointless tempting dream that only served to break you a little more inside. Not that his dreams of home were ever pleasant … but they were once – before all this mess. Before it really registered that he was stuck over there. Before they tried to cut him off.

(But you could never totally cut him off, he mused. Instead they had only strangled him just enough to turn his sleep distorted and dark – plagued by death and fire and riots and change.)

His thoughts twisted behind hollow eyes.

At least the whole thing was over for him – probably for everyone else soon too. And that, at the very least, had to be good news.

He tried to crack a smile at the man across from him but he was too tired. That, and the other hadn't looked up from his shoes since take off made him not mind the lack of niceties.

They had to nearly be home.

X

No one really noticed that he remained on board at the base back in America.

God they were back – he was back. But no, he wasn't allowed to get off. He'd love a vacation – lovely California beach house, Washington rainforest, some Oregon good times – but no. He may be within reach of all those things but he had to stay put.

"Don't get off the plane," they said.

"We're going to D.C.," they said.

"Sit tight," they said.

Heavy sighs were not becoming for one of his position. But really, he was not trying to sigh. He was just discreetly taking huge gulps of air. American air. Air with the subtle traces that made him, truly him. Hell, he even liked the airport exhaust.

He could feel the land though the tires of the aircraft. It called to him. He was so close – and yet so far. At least he'd be over his home and not someone else's home now. Silver lining – that was all he could focus on to relieve the dull ache of not being allowed to walk around a bit. He has gotta go see the boss though. Probably for a verbal report – goodness knows he couldn't deal with a pen right now. So it was off to D.C.

He just wanted to be on the ground. Maybe then he could get some sleep.

For now there was nothing but the air to fill his lungs and the teeming life beyond the window that screamed out to his soul to be felt and enjoyed.

X

They were just over the Rockies when he managed to break out of his thousand-yard stare. The whole process was more of an internal movement really. No one noticed the shift behind his eyes that had brought on a touch of lucidity to his overtaxed mind.

Something was up. They were not on course for D.C. The trajectory was all wrong.

What did he care? He was home.

The fleeting curiosity crumbled under his apathy.

The window was his only portal to reality. The window was also a curse. He could see but it robbed him of everything else. He could look upon salvation but have none of it. Despite the anguish he couldn't look away. He feared that even blinking would make the whole thing disappear.

Again and again he assured himself that it was there. That America was real. That America existed and it was not just some waking dream or some figment of the imagination.

It was February 28 and they were landing in South Dakota.

X

He didn't remember much after touching the ground.

It's just asphalt – but it's _his_ asphalt, on _his_ land and he was _finally_ back. He's back, he's back, he's back.

The only thing he really wanted to do now was take his boots and socks off. He's grinning like a loony – he knew he was. But he didn't care. Home was great, fantastic, wonderful, amazing. _Nothing_ could get the Hero down.

He stood, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around him. People were talking to him, gesturing, yelling. All he could think about was touching the land.

He felt whole again.

Eventually someone took him by the arm and drug him to a transport. He resisted getting in. He was having too much fun with standing. More came to coax him in. A multitude of gentle hands pushed and shoved for compliance. Eventually they cut through his haze of bliss just enough for him to realize that they wanted him to get in.

He didn't want to get in the truck – he just wanted to stand and be and absorb. So he didn't budge. The hands got more intense. He stayed resolute. His eyes didn't see the worried looks or the gaping hole of the open door. He was a rock among men.

Due to their persistence alone he slowly started to tune the voices back in. Even the brief snatches that filter through his preoccupied mind were enough for him to be motivated to get in the nondescript vehicle to nowhere.

But at least he was in America.

He was home and that was all that counted.

X

No one talked to him for the duration of the ride. It was stuffy and cramped with all of the people. They were FBI. He could tell even if they didn't broadcast it. He always knows these sorts of things.

He was jammed into the middle seat – if it could even be called a seat that is…his elbows were glued to his sides due to the abhorrent lack of personal space.

The trip was awkward and he didn't like it. He wanted to celebrate and take a breather and just rearticulate, find a bed maybe – he'd been up for _way_ too long. Yes. A bed would be great.

X

He blinked.

The car had stopped. They still hadn't told him why he was here in South Dakota of all places. Despite the lateness of the night (or is it the earliness of the morning) all men including the recently relieved of service, former Pvt. Jones, shuffled into a room in some building in some small town in South Dakota. Although he could figure out where he was he just couldn't seem to focus enough to make the magic happen.

The waiting in the room was even more awkward then waiting in the car. Everyone seemed to be on edge. They all knew what was going on. He had no idea what was going on. It was a dichotomy he didn't much care for. Especially after getting back from a war where information was the lifeblood of the action.

His head was all out of sorts.

The room, with its artificial everything and stuffy air from the multitude of bodies, failed to hold his attention. He knew it was just because he was exhausted. So exhausted that he couldn't even move his hands to rub his face or get a glass of water to try and wake up.

A small part of him – part that he hated with a passion right then – kept him thinking that this was all just one big hallucination. It was all a lie and he was still back with the fighting. The room, despite being not so military as normal, could easily pass for a requisitioned building or something. It was not out of the question. The whole thing was just one big magic trick designed to make him break.

Maybe he'd actually lost it.

And yet ... it all felt so real.

The land.

Being back.

He wanted to cry at the indignity of it all. Hurry up and wait. That was all his life was anymore.

He just, just needed to – a man walked through the door before he could figure out what he just needed to do. Lost in his head like he was he wouldn't have noticed but for the dramatic shift in the air. The wait was clearly over (whatever that meant).

The man darted through the crowed and made his way to the front of the room where he turned with a snap that was way to peppy for the hour and addressed the audience.

"Gentlemen. I apologize for the lateness of the hour but we have a situation that desperately needs our attention," he said. "Sorry. I'm getting ahead of myself. You may call me Trimbach. We'll be working together to get this thing fixed so remember it well.

"Some of you have a vague idea about what is going on here and most of you haven't a clue so here's the short form of your debrief so you don't look like an idiot when we get to the real thing. The situation is as old as the American government itself and can be summed up in one word: Indians."

Trimbach looked decidedly unamused when a small wave of chuckles interrupted what was ramping up to be quite the fire-and-brimstone speech. The humor wilted under the stony glare as it dawned on many that he wasn't joking.

"This isn't funny business here!" said Trimbach. "The American Indian Movement is staging a virtual rebellion against the rule of the United Sates Government. About 200 A.I.M. followers have taken hostages and secured the small town of Wounded Knee about 30 miles away from here. As of now, we are unsure of these radicals' demands or their intent for this ridiculous plot. This could be northing or it could be as extreme as a pinko conspiracy to take us over from the inside out."

That certainly caught everybody's attention.

Even Jones, as out of it as he was straightened up a bit. You could've heard a pin drop as Trimbach continued.

"Now, it is our job to get this thing over as quickly as possible before it gets any further out of hand. All of you have been brought here because we believe you to be an asset in a situation like this. You have one day to situate yourselves and your belongings before a more in-depth debrief for your specialized tasks here. Dismissed."

He blustered out of the room after that.

The murmuring was quick to start back up. Never an inspired group to sit on their hands, most worked to figure out where they were housed and such. The room created an ebb and flow that Jones was lost in.

Eventually someone came for him. (He didn't quite remember whom.) Jones, the man out of place. Jones, in full fatigues straight from Vietnam. He'd gotten quite a number of looks for that. (That he _did_ remember.)

He was led to a converted office room with a cot just down the hall from the heart of the action. Its prime location was afforded for his "special privilege."

He counted himself lucky that he kept it together even after whoever got him left.

Distantly he realized he should be flipping out. No, no – that didn't quite cover it – he should be … full on mental? Going absolutely berserk? He couldn't think of a good way to put how he should be feeling but the foggy emptiness really wasn't fitting the situation at all.

He resolved to care.

Just not right now.

He couldn't deal with it all right now. All he felt he could take on at the moment was shucking out of his uniform jacket and crawling into bed. (So what if it was a cot. He'd call it a bed and sleep like a king because it was better then the ground or the absolute piece of junk he'd been sleeping on while away.)

Still. Even with his muted emotional registry, unbidden thoughts swirled about the edges of his head. _Why?_ Even in its vagueness he knew what he meant and wished it would leave him be for one night. _Why'd it have to be here?_ The shadows were already clawing at his consciousness. He tried ignoring them.

Jacket off – one task down.

He looked at the bed. Plump pillows, sheets turned down. It was all ok. Really. He was fine.

Even his sleep-deprived mind didn't believe him. Yet the fleeting moments of horrors his sludgy mind was beginning to dredge up couldn't stop him from collapsing and embracing the cot.

At least he's home. He's finally back. If this was a dream then it was a damn good one so just leave him to his delusions.

Home at last.

It was that thought alone that let him succumb to oblivion at last at the end of a long road. He hadn't even shut the door of the office-turned-room.

It was the early morning of March 1st and at last, he slept.

X

He missed all of March 1st.

He slept on and the world turned round. People came and went. Not even the high traffic outside his open door revived him from his much needed slumber. He slept and people scurried about framing points and organizing things, in general trying not to freak out. Others grouse about crisis control management. Few spared the open door a glance and in the off chance they did, no one bothered to rouse the sleeping man in partial fatigues.

Around dinnertime a young secretary dropped off a small day bag from his boss along with some McDonald's – he didn't stir as she tucked him in and left.

His food grew cold – he slept on.

X

Someone was kind enough to rouse him for the next day's debrief. The whole process was surreal for Jones. Instead of yelling or revelry he was softly shaken awake, handed his cold food and a change of clothes and then propelled out of the room to the bathroom and then straight to the briefing room. He didn't even have time to panic at his lack of proper uniform before he hit the heavy, palpable tension in the briefing room.

Rested and refreshed he was both thrilled and utterly horrified that the situation was real.

Dozens of papers were spread out over the tables. People groused amongst themselves at the headlines. The cogs in Jones' brain began to churn as his picked up some common buzzwords. _Indians. Insurrection. Wounded Knee_.

He tried not to panic when he spied several international prints in the mix of newspapers. Some big international brouhaha was the absolute last thing he need right now. He hoped that this would all blow over soon. Even then he couldn't help but worry at the causes of such a takeover, or rather, if it really was a take over or just another government justified excuse to shake things up again.

He wanted to believe that the right thing would happen but it was hard to suppress the shudder at the sight of military in plainclothes and all the FBI and the visible increase of arms he saw in his short trip to the bathroom. He was very out of place amongst all the suits and various law enforcement uniforms.

Now not only did he feel self-conscious but his skin began to crawl at the unfamiliar feel of the casual clothing his boss was kind enough to send him. It made him feel exposed and off his game and unprepared to handle the future. He couldn't even take comfort in his trusty bomber jacket. No the transition between war and whatever this problem was becoming was not smooth or welcome.

People parted like a stream meeting a boulder all round him – he hadn't said two words to anyone since leaving Vietnam – he was still trying to recalibrate and find himself again here. So he just stood and ate his cold McDonalds in the middle of it all.

The amount of papers increased as the briefing room filled up. Big headlines and huge front page articles completed with incriminating photos, maps of the area, and quotes from all sides. The media, it seemed, has been swarming since yesterday, dropping just about everything in favor of this story.

"So Jones, what do you think of all this?" a voice called out, clearly indicating the spread of the international papers.

Jones casually turned around ignoring the cold sweat and his heart in his mouth at being startle from behind by a voice he hardly recognized. He silently prided himself at fabulously hiding his real reactions; it would have been awful if he had randomly punched someone.

Swallowing the last little bit of his burger before digging for some fries, Jones responded, "Uh, how do you know my name again?"

Trimbach, for Jones finally recognized the man as the speaker from last night, chuckled and replied, "It was on your uniform last night. You have to be highly attentive during this type of situation. But don't worry about it too much – I've been told that you'll really help us out in this thing even if you don't look a day over 18."

"Right."

All of the fries were gone by now and Jones crumpled the bag and went for a three pointer in the garbage can – "swish" – complete with a sound effect perfect shot. The smile in Trimbach's eyes grew cold and his face slid into an unamused frown.

"The international coverage!" Trimbach said. Jones refocused again. "Everyone is watching! We need to end this quickly before the other countries think that we don't treat those who don't deserve it well enough and start looking to Russia and the commies for answers!"

"But I'm the hero!"

"….what…?"

"Um, well, it's hard for people to keep their eyes off America so of course the coverage is going to be widespread. We just have to put our best foot forward. Grace under fire I think they call that. You are capable of grace under fire, right, Trimbach? I mean, aren't you sort of in charge of all this?" said Jones gesturing vaguely to the swarm around them.

"Well, we just need to end this quickly and efficiently so more headlines like these," Trimbach punctuated by shoving an article into Jones's hand, "don't get out."

"Sure sure."

"And that's where you come in," said Trimbach. He smiled at the outlandish look he received from Jones.

"Didn't you know?" Trimbach continued. "The top – and you know who I mean – said you'd be the best dealing with these people and whatever the hell it is they want. After we further debrief you tomorrow you're going to be on the front lines – negotiator-extraordinaire for the United States of America!"

With that Trimbach turned on his heel and left to organize everyone into groups. Jones stood stock still, reeling inside at what his boss was expecting him to do in this situation as the numerous others were sorted out and given jobs or assignments to fulfill while there. Not long after Agent-in-Charge Trimbach left, another man made a beeline for the still rather bewildered Jones.

"Mr. Jones, I presume." A quick affirmative nod. "Since you missed yesterday's acclimation groups I've been ordered to give you a quick show around the area."

X

Using Jones' room as a base, the unnamed man went about showing Jones everything in the facility and then, driving around in an unarmed car, toured the surroundings.

At the end of the day, Jones had a bag full of non-perishables, the names of the people who could get him more food and a basic map of the area (that, frankly, he didn't really need). It was all around a pretty wasteful day – not that he cared. If anything he'd learned that these sorts of big shakeups take time to deal with so he was better off waiting in the wing until they need a hero.

X

Author's Notes: I told you this was going to be an odd fic. Sorry for the choppy paragraphing. There are only so many ways to convey headspace and what I'm trying to pull off seemed like a good fit. Because of Alfred's position the plane that got him out of the hot zone went to an unnamed military base in California – that's why Alfred thinks of west coast vacations to get away to and why he's been calling the capital D.C. and not Washington like most other non-west-coast-ers. Nearly all of what Trimbach is saying in this section conveys actual government opinion during this event…right down to looking strong but benevolent so that the world thinks America can deal with it's problems in a civilized, respectable manner much better then any Red country. A tid bit of Alfred's disillusion with the government and his boss is part him miffed at being cut off from everything for so long and part him reconnecting with what many Americans at the time were thinking – particularly of the younger age group. Before you flame me for the secretary = female please remember that this fic is set in the 70s. There are a number of things you are probably going to find offensive in this. As for Alfred's twisted dreams – this era was pretty crazy and if you represented everyone in all of it, you'd be crazy too. Also, if you don't understand why Alfred is freaking out about the location keep reading or do yourself a favor and google "wounded knee massacre." Lastly, if you run across a detail that doesn't sit right with you (ie media coverage, povs, military in plain clothes) please note that many of the seemingly weird details are actual fact. The bibliography for this fic would be longer then the fic itself and if I were to footnote/endnote the fic we'd be here for another few years. The biggest fabrication of this whole story is the person guiding us through everything.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – An Unexpected Call**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The morning of March 3rd brought in more headlines and more people into the fold. Jones was happy to greet the day. It was his official debrief day so he would finally figure out what was going on here beyond what the probably barely accurate snippets in the papers were saying. Everyone in the briefing room this time would be vital to the negotiators and keeping the situation contained. As usual Trimbach was foreman.

"On the early morning of April 28, 200 A.I.M. occupied Wounded Knee. They are staging an armed resistance against the law and order of this land and refuse to come quietly. They have dug in deep. There is a complicated system of foxholes and bunkers in addition to the few buildings in the area. Also, from what we can tell, our intel states that there are several known criminals in their ranks.

"Fortunately the hostage situation has been resolved but frankly, I'm not buying it. That said, it is further proof of the extremes these radicals are wiling to go to get what they want. Let me reiterate, we're not sure what they're getting at despite the fact that the press seems to think otherwise.

"Our role is going to be to get these insurgents out of there as fast a possible with as little of their demands met as possible. We, as the representatives for the United States of America, can't afford to look weak right now. The only thing we can be sure of is that they have weapons and lots of them. As good handful of .30-calibers, even an M16 and some god-only-knows other smaller hunting rifles and firearms. As of now we have countered their line with a line of our own to try and prevent further weapons and ammunition from entering the area but we don't know how well that's working.

"The biggest hassle of this whole thing is going to be in communication. Now, this is really a two-part problem – First, direct contact communication: they say 'A' but they really mean 'B' but we interpret it as 'C' and visa versa. Therefore we have to make sure we know _exactly_ what everyone is talking about, when and in what context – because of this, most of you will be in the back room trying to figure out all the angles to what's being said and what's going on. The second form of our communication problem is the utter lack of direct communication in this backwater.

"Now we just finished installing the only public telephone in the area – naturally every reporter and their brother wants to use the damn thing and it makes it very hard for us to get our outside information – in other words we're pretty much on our own here and we've got to meet up with these radicals face to face to get anywhere."

The rest of the meeting was filled with other random information including maps and photos and studying up on the many leaders of the takeover – important odds and ends stuff to get everyone on the same page. Before long people were given the clear to branch off into small groups to brainstorm and strategize. They touched on everything – projected weather conditions, what kind of weapons and gear were needed in the trenches, what the expected demands were and how to counter them, any potential willing concessions the government could give, whose legal jurisdiction they were dealing with and on and on. If it could give them an advantage, they tried to figure it out.

Jones was put on the surveyor group trying to figure out where entry and exit points in the area around Wounded Knee were. They had every sort of map imaginable from many different eras of history to ensure that the government knew the placement of every old road, dried up riverbed and deer path.

It was a given that all major roads would be a check point in the state/federal ring but by the end of the afternoon they were able to establish a pretty good idea of other non-marked routes that would need to be patrolled to make the blockade effective. True it wasn't directly fueling negotiations but an idiot could tell you that the resisting party would be much more willing to talk or listen or bargain when under some sort of pressure – be it food, fuel, water or weaponry. This was a siege they were planning. The government had, according to officials, everything to lose in the public eye while the worst that cold happen to the radicals was loss of life.

At mid-afternoon, while Jones and his team were sifting though a new set of maps that just came in, a Bureau of Indian Affairs employee came to their door. This was not unusual per-say (it was the area's B.I.A. building) but he called out,

"Telephone for Jones. I have a telephone call for a Mr. Alfred F. Jones."

The planning and bustle ground to a halt as the man repeated his announcement.

"Hey, that's me – I'm Alfred F. Jones." And with that Alfred was quickly expunged from the room so he could go take his phone call (many an eye roll at that) so the rest of them could get a true day's work in.

X

Alfred and the B.I.A. man quickly walked though the hallways as Alfred peppered the man with questions.

"So who called?"

"I don't know sir. I was just sent to get you."

"Do you know what they want?"

"No sir. But I assure you the matter has been deemed urgent."

"Urgent like President urgent? Or urgent like the world conference has been moved up a few days urgent?" The attendant just shot him a perplexed look and picked up the pace. As they headed through the bowels of the building Alfred realized something rather odd.

"Why are we heading away from the telephone?" Alfred said.

"When the gravity of the call was assessed Mr. Lyman thought it prudent that you use the phone in his office. He has gone home for the night so you may use the phone for as long as you need."

"Oh." Lyman…the name sounded vaguely familiar but Alfred just couldn't place it.

He didn't have long to chew on the problem. It was cleared up for him when they reached the office door. The plack proudly proclaimed, _Mr. Stanley Lyman – Head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Pine Ridge Reservation Branch_. With the realization that this was the man who had to suffer though the recent crisis Alfred expected the office to be a mess – surprisingly, it was very neat and orderly.

"Just pick up the phone and the caller will be waiting for you. I have to get back to my job now," said the B.I.A. man.

The door slammed leaving Alfred alone in the office room.

Alfred did not pick up the phone right away. Call it paranoia but the room was thoroughly inspected for any recording devices or other suspicious electronics. Having lived through several high-tech wars and being very fresh from the last one Alfred's inspections were quick and efficient. The search also came up blank so he shuffled over to the desk, sat down and picked up the phone.

Despite the fact that the phone was off the receiver and pressed to his ear he realized that he didn't know how to properly greet the caller. It was rather awkward really. If it was his boss it would be something like "Hey boss it's Alfred. I swear whatever they say it wasn't me." Or if it had been his commander from Vietnam something along the lines of "Pvt. Jones reporting, sir." A more personal call could be anything from "Yellow~" to "Peace brother" or if it was a certain someone, "Damn it commie how did you get this number!"

Sadly all these different greetings really couldn't be mixed. (Slang to the commander would be very bad, calling the President a commie would be worse and he'd rather be shot then give any sort of goodwill towards a certain aforementioned individual who has not actually been identified but he knew who he meant.)

It took him about 10 minutes to churn though all the different greetings he could give the mysterious caller. All the while the phone was to his ear.

He didn't even know if the other person was on the phone or not for crying out loud! He couldn't hear breathing or huffing or sighing or the phone jostling around to indicate impatience at being put on hold for so long.

It was rather creepy actually – Maybe! Maybe it was a prank. Some big old hoax to screw with his mind – Not cool, man. So not cool. Maybe it really was Russia with some new mind ray thing that could fry your brain or turn you into a zombie or a commie or something! That was so devious and 5th column-ish.

Oh. My. God.

He was going to die. The crazy silence on the phone had to be a trap. He needed to hang up _now_ or his brains would turn to commie much. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

The phone nearly made it to the receiver before Alfred realized that the phone was yelling. Err, there was yelling coming from the phone…a very familiar yelling actually.

In fact it sounded just like, "Arthur! What are you doing on the phone! How'd ya know I was here! I thought – but then it was you! So I didn't hang up!"

"Alfred F. Jones! You bloody imbecile. I thought I taught you better manners when answering someone! Granted we did not have telephones back then but the same principals still apply."

"Uh."

"You don't just stand at somebody's front door and expect them to magically know that you're there – you do not creep in on people who are awaiting your arrival. Announce. Your. Bloody. Presence! Honestly. One would think you would be a bit more civilized after seeing the world from a new perspective for so long. Why did you not say 'hello' like every other normal human being when you picked up the phone 15 minutes ago?"

"But Artie~"

"It is Arthur, prat – get it right for once."

"Yeah but – hey wait! How'd you know I was on the line? Hey not cool – double standard man! Why didn't _you_ say anything if you knew I was on the line instead of being like 'oh I'm gonna be creepy silent like Russ- a commie bastard who's a big fat creep because it's take pot shots at America day' or something. God England you're so mean," said Alfred. He felt kind of bad for using Arthur's nation name like that, especially after not hearing from the man for so long but he felt it was a serious enough matter to warrant the occasion.

He heard Arthur sigh and settled in for his explanation.

"First off," said Arthur. His weariness over the phone was palpable. "It is only proper etiquette to answer the phone with some from of greeting to let the other person know that you are there. A complete fool could have figured that one out. As to how I knew you picked up – you jostled the phone off the cradle and leaned back in your squeaky chair. Anyone who has had to deal with gathering intelligence would know to recognize these clues. Lastly, I knew you were going to hang up on me – and after all this time I've spent trying to reach you and then waiting forever – because your breathing picked up and your chair rocked forward again. But no matter, you're home now and that's what counts."

"So you called just to say 'hi?'" said Alfred.

"Well, naturally I wanted to extend my – "

"And how did you know I was here? Dude. Do you have some super secret camera thing hidden on me or something? Can you see my every move – even when I'm in the shower or asleep at night? I always knew you cared Arthur but stalking … stalking is not cool man. You should have really just talked to me instead of being a creep. People could get the wrong idea and that wouldn't be good so you know, we should just work stuff out on the straight and level so we don't have to get all worked up over nothing again and – "

"Alfred."

"Uh, dude, you kind of interrupted me and you always said – "

"Shut up."

"…"

"…"

"…"

"You are quite the motor mouth when you get going you know that?" said Arthur. Even though the phone Alfred could hear the faint smile on Arthur's face. It was just like old times before, before everything.

"Wel – "

"Rhetorical!" Arthur said. "Rhetorical question. Anyway, I called because I wanted to welcome you back home after being gone for so long. I thought you'd be a little more grateful for all the effort it took for me to reach you. You wouldn't believe the telephone tag that these wankers put me thought. Your brother has been really upset that you never returned any of his letters and I for one – "

"Wait, wait, wait. Back up. I never got a single damn package or letter or postcard or anything the whole time I was there. Not even the obligatory school kid thank you card. Nothing. Arthur I swear – I thought that you all were mad at me or something. Even Francis didn't say thanks. Not even Francis…"

"Bollocks. I suspected as much. It is why I went to all the trouble of reaching you outside of the normal means. Your government doesn't even know I called out here – that is why I have gotten all the run around. Stupid gits don't know anything. Probably thought it was for the good of the country or something leaving you in the dark like that. Explains a lot you know…don't stress yourself too much Alfred. I will square it with Matthew and everything. I suspect they will be keeping you busy out there. Speaking of, just where are you again? All this nonsense and I know Great Planes but you know how bad press is with specifics."

Thank goodness for people on his team like Arthur. Alfred didn't think he could handle it if every meeting he had with anyone who had tried to talk to him in the past decade chewed him out for blowing them off. Arthur would take care of it. A small condolence for the world of hell he'd been through recently. Spare him the pity party. Back to business.

"Um, well," said Alfred. He took a moment to truly orient himself. "The Pine Ridge Reservation is in the southern part of South Dakota and Wounded Knee is a really small village in sorta the lower middle. So basically, middle of nowhere really…But you never answered my question – how did you know I was here exactly? I mean I'm sure this is on my news and I saw some wire stuff in _your_ newspapers but, um, it's still kinda creeping me out how you found me because your intel stuff is awesome like that and I know we're super awesome allies and all but it's still weird yanno?"

"Right, right. Well if you must know I saw you on the telly."

"Say what now?"

"Well I didn't know that you were back but I suspected it would be soon. Left you in until the very end they did but not quite the bitter end just in case. Pretty good strategy if you think about it. Anyway, just like I said I saw you on the telly. Sat down for dinner and flicked on the news to start getting ready for the conference and what the media is saying and all because you know how I like to compare what people say and how the media presents it. But I saw your most recent story about Wounded Knee and there was a reporter in, um, Rapid City, if I recall correctly and you walked by in the background. Couldn't believe it really. You were with another man and he looked like he was showing you around. You were talking about McDonalds – before you ask, I can lip read and even though you looked bloody exhausted you always get an odd sort of gleam in your eyes and pep in you step when talking about that deep fried monstrosity. So I knew it was you. And that odd piece of hair of yours – that helped too. It was only a very short little bit – blink and you miss it sort of thing. It gave me a vague idea of where you were so I got on the telephone first thing and have been jumping around between local government agencies to try and get a hold of you. Took forever really but I managed it."

"Couldn't bare another day without hearing the sultry sound of my voice, old man?"

"…wanker…"

"Only for you."

"I'm not going to dignify that response with further commentary."

"But you just did."

"Don't see why I called – ungrateful brat."

"Aww, I love you too – but really, a call to say 'hi' is pretty weird especially for a technologically challenged one such as yourself, Mr. Ulterior Motive."

"I haven't talked to you in years and this is how you appreciate it!"

"I appreciate it."

"Oh. Well – "

"Awkward."

"Shut up."

"Maybe it'd help if you got to your point then," said Alfred. Not that he really wanted him to. Talking to Arthur was a balm despite all of the pseudo-blustering.

"Impatience is a vice that I hoped you'd gotten rid of by now."

"Well, now that we're on that topic – "

"Shut it. How can I get to my other points of dialogue in if you keep interrupting?"

"He, he – it's just like a world conference then."

"Exactly."

"What?"

"The world conference is on March 20th. Be rested and ready. You're hosting."

"Crap! Really?! Omigod that's in like," Alfred scrambled to find the date. A calendar or something. He had no idea what day it was. "Less then a week? And I haven't even booked any hotel rooms or a conference center. What city is it in anyway? I'm so toasted. Aw man – this is even worse then that time in the Netherlands when I – uh, did that thing that I said I'd never tell you about so forget I said anything – you heard nothing. Nothing. This is bad! Arthur! You gotta call it off or postpone or something or the conference will be a total bust! And that is not groovy at all man. Not at all!"

Alfred let out a wail of frustration and slammed his head down onto the desk. He muttered dark things quietly so that the phone didn't pick his voice up. He was soon cut off by Arthur chiming back in.

"You truly have been in an information warp haven't you? Because no one could get a hold of you Matthew took care of everything. The only thing your government helped us with was assuring you would be there and ready this time and to use New York City as the meet up point as usual. Honestly, Alfred, you may be a pain at times but no former colony of mine will botch a world conference before it even gets started. I wont allow it. So be grateful."

"So all I have to do is show up?"

"Yes – to formally open and close. Maybe say a few things about the state of your affairs all things considered."

"Sweet."

"Anyway, on that note some of my boys will be over to you shortly to get a better handle on the scoop at Wounded Knee beyond the dribble you have been putting out. Frankly I don't trust your sources – especially with that hostage situation; residents in their own homes can hardly be seen as such. Although, I suppose you have still been trying to reconnect. I bet you will always have a bit of South Vietnam in you from being over there for so long. Just please save yourself another scandal and do not let any reporters get shot for once."

"It's not like I do it on purpose. People can be crazy."

"Don't we all know – just, try very, very hard – Kiku and Ludwig ask the same as well by the way. Spoke with them about coordinating your conference."

"Sure sure, no deaths, be ready for the conference – you don't need to tell me twice."

"Yes but sometimes I wonder. Well I surmise I have taken up enough time for one day. I'm sure your crisis control people will be missing you by now. Take my advice and blow them off, grab a bite and go to bed. You still seem too out of it to be normal…well, normal for you that is."

"Gee thanks Artie, I really appreciate the sentiment but now that you mention it I'm famished!"

"Yes, it is terribly late here as well. I don't suppose I will have the opportunity to contact you again so goodbye for now. I will see you at the conference. And do not worry about Matthew – I will square it with him so he wont kick you in the bum when he sees you."

"Like he could."

"I seem to recall several incidents when he did."

"Nanana, several incidents, nanana. Pshaw. I don't remember that so you must be going senile or something."

"Goodbye Alfred – I will keep it easy for you: no media casualties, don't forget the conference."

"Conference, media – got it. Can't wait to mess with you in person Arthur."

"Smashing. I am going to bed – get some food and do the same."

"Enjoy your old-man rest. See you soon!" said Alfred.

It was only when the phone clicked on the other side did Alfred realized just how long the call had taken. No one had come to get him either – must not have needed his expert opinion on anything. Well, that being the case Alfred opted to hitch a ride and find some hot food. There weren't many options but one of the caravans of people should be on the hunt by now.

Now the real question was as followed: how to get out of the wheely chair without tipping over – during his conversation the only comfortable spot he could manage to find was with feet awkwardly propped up on the desk.

Needless to say Alfred was on the ground after a few minutes. Now, to find a ride.

X

**Author's Notes:** Lots of little historical details in this chapter. I'm sure most of you got distracted by my pathetic attempt at rendering England correctly so there are a few history tidbits that I want to remind you of more blatantly then the small asides in the fic. First, most people blame France for America's involvement in the Vietnam War – it would make sense that Alfred would be particularly miffed that he came to Francis' rescue and never heard a single word from the guy. England, being rather old had a war and how high level politicians try to deal with the nation representatives, probably saw that coming and this explains why he's so willing to run damage control on America's behalf. Nearly all of Trimbach's speech summarizes what the government position was on the situation – right down to the belief the occupiers were packing lots of heat to being unsure what the demands of the occupiers were but above all, how bad this situation was making America look to itself and the rest of the world. As for the briefly mentioned hostage situation – depending on who you ask you either had a) hostages, b) local residents under house arrest, c) local residents that ignored all of the shenanigans around them and laid low in their houses freaking everyone out or d) local residents who were so afraid of getting shot at by the feds when approaching the blockade (because hey…what's the difference between a "good Indian" and a "bad Indian" anyway even if you aren't actually an "Indian" in the first place) they moved to the occupier's camp for safety but didn't want to own up to their fears. It's just one of those funny, not funny situations. Lastly, I hope you all caught my jab at Alfred and his participation in "high tech wars." If only the poor fool knew what was coming down the road.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – Dinner and a Plan**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The eatery was an odd one. Sure this was in the middle of nowhere and everything had the same funky architecture but this took the cake. It was a sort of wild-west-esque run-down modern watering hole on the outside of town. Really it was a part bar, part gaming hall, part restaurant, sort of a place. At that moment it was jam packed with all manner of folk. You had government cronies next to local residents next to reporters. Racially, it was an all around a massive hodge podge of whites and Native Americans and even a few blacks and Chicanos thrown in the mix.

There were no open tables so Alfred was placed among his people. They were a bit of a scruffily looking bunch. The three others at the table for 4 were no doubt local residents of the area.

Alfred had barely picked up the menu before his tablemates drew him into a conversation – or rather blew him away with their griping. Alfred 'listened politely' (see: read his menu and thought about food). By the time his order was placed Alfred F. Jones was pretty much privy to their entire reality.

The man across from him and the taller woman to his left were married and her shorter sister was in the chair opposite her sister. They previously lived in the area – still technically did but were refugees because of the conflict. For once in his life Alfred kept his opinions to himself. These refugees were not happy in the slightest. He started tuning them out once his food came by employing his patented autopilot ability to nod and verbally respond at just the right times (this techniques is trademark by the U.S.A. and is also frequently employed during Arthur chew-him-out time).

"And that poor preacher. Did you hear what they did to him?" The woman had her full attention on Alfred at this point who did the polite thing and shook his head 'no' instead of talking with his mouth full. (Let it be known he can treat the ladies right.)

"Well, let me tell you, they locked him up!" she continued. "Took the poor man hostage in his own church. Turned the place into a makeshift prison – imagine, a place of sanctuary and worship defiled to be something like that!"

"Well," the other lady started in. "I'm just glad we got out when we did. God only knows what's happening to the house in that warzone but at least I don't have to be there to see those radicals or get locked up by them. I just don't think I could bear it! Hardly can now. My whole life is behind that line – siege they're calling it – I want to go back home but it's not safe. And I had just re-done the carpeting too. I'm sure our entire livelihood is bullet riddled and busted up by now. It makes me sick. Nobody thinks about us during this sort of thing – as residence of the area we should have a voice concerning the destruction of our property but everyone just runs us over. Those reporters should focus on the real story here. The destruction of our homes – I went from a nice house and job to displaced and worthless and nobody cares. I hate those Indians and everything they stand for. The government needs to hurry up and get this thing over with so we can return home and get back to normal again."

Alfred nearly jumped in at this point. Nearly proclaimed his sympathies for the untold story of forced abandonment. Nearly wrapped the woman into a bear hug and told her that this happens a lot but people always find a way to forge through.

But he didn't. The man's comments took the wind straight out of his sails.

"I'll tell you one thing," said the man. "They damn well better be out by Easter or me and the boys are going to go on a good old-fashioned turkey shoot or something like that. C'mon ladies, we're finished here. Let's let the man eat in peace."

Without so much as a passing goodbye the man stormed off wife and sister in tow, leaving Alfred alone with his thoughts at the table.

He chewed on, trying not to think about much of anything and ordered more food when the wait staff came around.

He discretely slipped his shoes off. The place was still packed despite the oncoming dusk but there seemed to be a shift away from a dinner crowed to the folks that shouldn't normally be here but had no other place to go beside the cheap hotel some news agency or the government set them up with. Essentially a lot of folks that think they know all about what was going down but always looking for new angles.

Alfred was just glad that everyone was so preoccupied that no one had noticed him polish off over half the menu. Still, he couldn't be too careful – order slow enough and no one asks questions save the wait staff but being who he is even they didn't tend to question. In a place this busy they wouldn't even notice a lonely guy in the eye of the storm ordering his body weight in food with his shoes off – feet slowly caressing the old wood floor polished to a shine with decades of use.

"Excuse me sir." Or not.

"Hey there," Alfred said. It was the maitre'd of the place…or at the very least the poor sod in charge of seating everyone in this mad house.

"I am very sorry sir but as you can see the place is packed. Would you mind terribly if I sit you in the corner booth with the three men over there so I can seat this family of four?"

Alfred looked behind the man to see for himself this family – another one of those displaced groups fleeing from whoever was wiling to house them with a bite out to eat. He then swiveled around in his chair to see the corner booth in question – three men, suits and ties, probably journalists, locked in a heated discussion, well picked over remains of food on the table but beers still full up. They would stay, but not for long. They probably wouldn't register the food he'd already eaten so he could start his meal over again with them. Alfred turned back to the man.

"Sure thing buddy if you top of my coke," said Alfred. He raised his nearly empty glass and shook the ice around a bit. "And make sure all of my food that I just ordered gets to me over there, and help me bring the rest of this stuff over too." The man looked ecstatically relieved as such petty demands. "Oh and – " a flash of worry, "Would you mind breaking the ice over there? Things seem to be rather…tense."

"Naturally sir and thank you so much."

"Alright then," Alfred made a move to stand up but quickly realized his shoes were still off. Not wanting to be kicked out he made a show of dropping his napkin to quickly slip them on and tie one. Half way to the booth he paused to re-tie the other, looking back to see his former table had already been cleaned off and the four-person group seated and about to order.

As Alfred approached the booth three sets of curious eyes drilled in to him all Spanish-inquisition style despite the announcement of the new arrangement by the waiter. Fortunately Alfred was confident that while still a bit out of sorts he could deal with the media. Hopefully. He sat down smiled and started right on with greetings hoping for once that propriety and decorum could come to his rescue and break the ice.

"Evening gentlemen. Bit crowded here innit. Sorry to crash your party but you can't always argue."

"Oh but you can!" The other two men groaned at the exclamation from the man in the brown suit on the left.

"Come off it and don't start this again," the one with the glasses directly across from him shot back. The gray suit kitty corner chimed in with an explanation for Alfred.

"Don't mind them. They're both barking mad." They paused when Alfred's food showed up although no one questioned the quantity presented. Gray-suit spoke up again once all was settled, "They keep going on about the government blockade. New rules just in – no reporters allowed."

"But that still doesn't mean that there is not a story to be told!" Brown-suit said. "We just need to not give up and either wait it out or go and get it."

"Look, I want the story as much as the next guy but there is no use getting through the government rigmarole," Glasses shot back. "We're much better off trying to pump it out of 'em here then getting caught or killed out there."

"But where's your sense of spirit and adventure?! The American people deserve to know what is going on," said Brown-suit. "If we sit on our hands the government could pull a fast one and _we'd_ never know so _no one_ would ever know. I'm not leaving until I'm forced out and I sure as hell won't be leaving before all those international folks do!"

"Come off it now," interjected Gray-suit. "Take a deep breath and weight the options." He turned to Alfred – it was clear that despite their difference the three were ramping up to pumping him for information or something like that. "We know this place is crawling with bodies of all sorts and we know we can't get in but that doesn't mean we are out of luck."

It was obvious he wanted to say more but with Alfred there none of the men would go further with the topic. Not quite sure what they wanted Alfred continued to plow through his food.

Finally Glasses jumped him.

"So where exactly do you stand in all this, Alfred, was it?" Now anyone who knew anything would tell you that a journalist starved for information was a lot like dealing with a hungry tiger. The gleam in their eyes betrayed the need to know and the need to tell. It was usually not all that bad but everything was a resource when the chips were down. Sometimes it just took the right hammer to crack a difficult nut.

"Well," Alfred started and they all leaned in a bit. "I want to know what is going on here. I feel like somebody really needs to check up on the situation because when it comes to Native Americans, well, lets face it guys" – he drops his voice – "the government track records never been that great when it comes to this sort of thing. I think that – oh hang on a second … that's my other order of food over there. Hang on."

Waylaid by the promise of food Alfred quickly got up to aid the waitress who was trying to give a bemused family of four a bowl of salad, fries, hamburger and rack'o'ribs at his old table even though the family was already on dessert. As he made his way back to the booth he couldn't help but overhear the hushed voices of the journalists trying to figure out just who the heck he was and if he was just trying to get them in trouble and how he'd been seen with some of the lower level federal government people and those FBI folks too. It was a lot of fast talk and if Alfred was totally straight with them most of it was pretty accurate.

They hushed right up as he appeared with his plates. No one said anything as he dumped ranch dressing all over the salad. Not a sound save the munching was heard as the salad rapidly disappeared. When it had been polished off Alfred returned to the conversation previous.

"I can get us in to the occupation site without us getting caught or shot," said Alfred. A statement of fact. Nothing more, nothing less. Not aggressive, or conspiratorial, or questioning. It just was. Maybe that was what shut the media men up so much. The idea – not too outlandish considering the nature of the issues discussed, but the delivery – there was power in that delivery. Power and something else, hard to say what exactly but whatever it was it booked no question. There was no shadow of a doubt in that statement. Dubious background aside it was clear that this man, Alfred, knew exactly what he was doing, whether or not they came along.

"I'm in," Brown-suit said suddenly. And the spell was broken. The other two nodded in agreement. This was not a chance they could afford to miss.

Alfred spoke again, "I know this area. Know it like the back of my hand. The blockade may be on all the roads and most of the main areas but it is damn near impossible to have everything covered. So. We're going to take a leaflet out of the old book – go in by the cover of darkness using the shadows of the gullies and ravines. It will take us all night but you lot will get your story and I'll get my questions answered without any middleman. What'd'ya say?"

A pregnant pause as the three others mulled over Alfred's words.

Finally Glasses spoke up, "One question? Just who are you?"

"Well, I already told you. Alfred. A friend. Not quite sure how I wound up here but I'll do my darndest to help you boys get the story straight so you can tell the world the side that doesn't often get to be told. Now, should I order ice cream or are you ready to go?"

"I don't know about you lot but I've got all I need with me," Brown-suit said patting on his satchel.

" I suspect a party any larger then ours would be more likely to not make it so I'll be without my camera man but that is ok all things considered," Glasses replied.

"Order your ice cream," said the third, " I think its not quite dark enough yet to get the show on the road.

"Agreed. Um, waiter!"

Little else was said until darkness fell and the ice cream was gone. When the last spoonful was licked clean and hit the platter with a clank Alfred focused in on his impromptu troop. The place had cleared out a good bit but it was still more full then normal.

"Alright," said Alfred. "Everyone follow me. Act natural. Embrace stealth and don't say anything. Off we go."

X

**Author's Note:** Just a short little chapter but I didn't want to bog anyone down with too much information at once. People often don't think of the media as a voice for itself – rather it is the medium for others to speak. In this event the media, despite trying not to color anything one particular way, it a presence all on it's own. By looking at not only what the media was saying but how they were saying it you can tweeze out the viewpoint the various news outlets held. Sometimes it's really overt and other times it's incredibly subtle but as the number one source of information – wrong or otherwise – for this event the standpoint that the media took and why they took it and what caused them to take it in the first place is almost more important then the after-the-fact retellings from people actually there. Back before fact checking was easy, this was the version that America and the world at large saw and one of the driving messages in this time period was getting the story so that people – any people (president, government, politicians, radicals, home bodies, doesn't matter who), could have a fighting chance…either to stop it or support it. Pushing things under the rug was still pretty easy in this decade but it was getting a heck of a lot more difficult because journalists really didn't care about lines in the sand. Any way… you also got to learn a smidge about an oft forgotten part of the story – the displaced folks caused by this event. With all the turmoil going on, no one really focused on this group until they got mad enough about how drawn out the process was taking and got so pissed off at everything that they armed themselves and threatened to blow everyone away if they couldn't be home with everyone else out by Easter. As for the swarms of people descending on this area for one reason or another – really the only modern day example that I can think of similar population booms in one single area are perhaps the annual Sturgis biker rally or the increased gobs of people that swarm Disneyland during spring break or something.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – A Long Walk**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

Everyone peeled out slowly. No one bothered to see who was leaving – too many people coming and going to pay much attention to that kind of thing. Only a short distance away from the restaurant Alfred led them onto a small dirt path. They still didn't look too out of place but everyone in the company was very quiet.

There were consequences to being seen – the patrol would bring a one-way ticket to the clink in some dubious place with little hope of anything. Or they'd be shot. Can't forget that possibility. But Alfred knew what he was doing.

The restaurant shrunk slowly as little more then a glowy spot in the distance. All too soon the fairly clear dirt trail became little more then an animal path and before long the journalists couldn't make heads or tails of the direction they were going. The men kept close together with Jones in the front. Clearly he knew what he was doing – the man never stumbled or tripped. Occasionally he would slow and stop, cocking his head to the side to listen. The rest of the party would hold a collective breath only to ease up a bit when the movement returned. Without aid of synthetic light the quartet picked their way across the blackened expanse.

The flat land gave way to more gullied terrain as the moon crept slowly skyward. No one spoke for fear of that the sounds would catch an unwanted ear.

The trek was difficult for the journalists. Jones was still an unknown brought in by the government. For the sake of the story they were trusting him. But it was an uneasy feeling. In this era it was far to easy for a man with a silver tongue to lead unsuspecting sheep right to the slaughter.

Jones seemed oblivious to the inner mechanics working behind him. He was nothing but a determined shade wandering in an unseen pattern toward an end goal. He never once turned to look back at his companions, judging instinctually that they would follow his lead. Not even the moonlight, as dim silvered as it was, could mask the determination in his stance. None of the journalists dared to think of what made a man so sure of his step in the darkness, so sure of his path in the wild or so sure of his ability to drag three bumbling desk workers with an aptitude for legwork silently through the brush.

X

The moon was high as they finally approached a more shrubed area. Despite the increased cover the true trials of the night were yet to come. The men moved into more of a crouch following Jones' lead. There were more pauses now – silence punctuated by the occasional gunshot or of the nearby rattling of a car. But still they crept onward. With the added brush cover it soon became impossible to tell where the group was headed – not a man bothered to chance looking at the sky for there position on the off chance the others would pull too far ahead or he should trip and cause a racket.

With what would have been hours or only minutes Jones slipped into one of the many gullies in the landscape. The group hugged the shadows in an effort to conceal themselves. The car sounds were closer now. It was fairly obvious Jones was leading them through the lines now.

Suddenly lights appeared on the ridge nearest them. Tension skyrocketed. The concealing shadows all but disappeared. The four clung together.

Silent prayers rang out.

Ears strained but nothing but the rush of blood could be heard.

Crushing silence.

Crushing anticipation.

Crushing fear.

Then the lights moved away.

All four sagged, even the stoic Jones. It wasn't a total tension release, they weren't out of the woods yet, but it brought the group back into focus and urged them forward at a quicker clip.

All to soon the landscape fell away. Ridges blended seamlessly back into the ground and the shrubs began to become more spaced out.

They were getting closer.

X

As the ground began to slip gently upward the four began to crawl. With everyone watching the occupation site this was the most difficult part. The final approach.

After one final surge the four slipped amongst the buildings. It would not be long now before daybreak. Then Jones would get his perspective and the others would get their story.

No matter how the Indians reacted to their presence, the American people would be reading all about it in tomorrow's paper.

X

The party took shelter by one of the larger buildings. The wind would bring the occasional flow of voices from across the plane. It seemed as though everyone in camp was either asleep or watching the government blockade so the four were left to think and collect themselves.

No one spoke but it was clear that Jones was beginning to pull away from the other three. There was not exhaustion in his features like the others but his body betrayed his weariness and above all an underlying desire to explore the area. The way he hands clenched and his muscles tensed he wanted to poke around but was holding back. No one wanted to stir up any surprises in the night and wind up with a gun to the face after all. So they waited.

X

**Author's Notes:** Sorry for the lame chapter. I needed a cut between the restaurant scene and what's coming next and to be honest this didn't fit in with either side. I'm also not quite good a writing anticipation either. Let's put it this way – this chapter was egregiously long in reality…it would have taken a group nearly all night to hike into the occupation sight from a far enough distance away to not get caught. Unfortunately, this arduous trek – which many people accomplished during the actual engagement – can be summed up into very few words. Therefore, it is up to you, oh frustrated reader, to fume over the long shortness of what has been presented as a chapter and hopefully to realize that the "what that's it" feeling is exactly what many other readers who were following the engagement daily in the papers – both the many front page articles and the ones buried deeper in the back – were feeling the exact same thing. Please don't hate me for this.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 – Welcome to Camp**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

As the pink early morning light flitted though the sky, a breeze whipped around the occupation site. It kicked up some garbage and blew it at the four. Glasses crinkled his nose as he brushed the offending litter away and then took the time to try and rescue the rest of his dusty clothing. The other two journalists followed suit. Jones had yet to move.

Then the door of the building banged open behind them.

Light spilled out from the open entryway temporarily blinding the four who had strained their eyes all night long. A woman's voice cut thought the silence, "Eff water!" The men were recovering quickly but anything they could have said was cut off with a sharp, "Who the eff are you?"

Seeing the perfect opportunity to start on his scoop Brown-suit piped up, "Why hello there! My friends and I are journalists and we want to talk to you about – "

"Ann, who the heck are you talking to?" Another woman, much older then the first had come to the doorway without much notice to investigate the delay. She cocked an eyebrow at the odd quartet on the ground.

"Never mind. I don't care," she said. "Just take them three with the extra buckets to cut down on the breakfast work." Thrusting more buckets at the journalists the new woman brushed them off the entryway and made to pull Alfred inside. "Hurry back," she croaked as an afterthought. "We've got lots of hungry folks to feed."

As the door slammed the old woman leveled her undivided attention at Alfred. As she eyed him up and down she fired off questions. "Why 'ya here?"

"To learn about this side of the fence," said Alfred.

"How'd ya get here?"

"I snuck in with three journalists." His answers were open and honest but the old woman frowned at his last statement. She narrowed her eyes at this dusty young man with his too bright eyes and his sincere face.

"You work for the government?"

"Yes. Alfred F. Jones at your service."

"I don't really like the government."

"Honestly, m'am, neither do I sometimes." That seemed to appease her enough as her icy exterior shifted slightly. With a quintessential motherly smile on her face she drew Alfred more into the area.

"Welcome to the mess, Alfred. We're short handed so you're going to help me with the food."

Her gesture prompted Alfred to draw back and actually take in the room. It was small. Way too small to produce food for the 200 people he'd been told were held up here. If anything it was more of a break room then an actual kitchen. Already all available counter space was cluttered with stacks of an eclectic assortment of plates and bowls and towers of canned beans and bags of macaroni.

The little window over the sink was too grimy to properly look out of. But Alfred being Alfred would guess that the sun was about half way up. The old woman had bustled out the door on the other side of the small rectangle room so Alfred approached the sink to wash his hands.

In the three steps it took for him to get to the sink he scoped out the cook top. It was an oven/stove combination that had seen better days but he'd worked with much worse in the past. Still, there was a size limitation present that could cause problems.

The sink itself looked better then the other appliances – it was big in the way that was frustrating when you need the counter space. Alfred turned the faucet on, the water gurgled but none came out. He shut it off and tried again only to have the old woman back in the room and laughing at him.

"That sink doesn't work. It's why Ann is getting water from the well with your friends. They keep trying to shut the water supply off to end us faster but they haven't quite managed all the way yet. That along with the well should last us … although if we stay here too long they might try and poison us or something."

Alfred looked as if he'd just swallowed a lemon and the old woman laughed again. It was a good kind of laugh but also a bad kind of laugh, one that made Alfred feel like he didn't know the half of it even though in reality he did and had been on both the giving and receiving end of such a tactic – both in the distant past and uncomfortably close to the future as well.

Before he could respond the three reporters and the young girl from before barged in with buckets brimming with water. Alfred didn't get a chance to talk to any of them – the reporters were babbling about plans and who to talk to and where to go and what to see and soon enough the old woman was ushering them all out of the door again so the two of them could cook.

Silence reigned.

"We'll be cooking the last bit of the eggs today," the old woman said. "Ran out of coffee last night so we'll use the powdered orange juice and hope we don't get our heads chewed off. Now, do you want to scramble or start on the macaroni?"

Alfred took a brief moment to size her up, the quirked eyebrow, the smiling face and he couldn't help but feel that despite so much wrong with the situation she seemed normal and was getting along just fine despite it all.

"Macaroni?" he says. "For breakfast?"

"No silly, we've got to start on that now so it will be ready by lunch."

"I'll do the eggs."

"Sure thing. Nothing fancy now. I've got a village to feed."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence as Alfred clicked on the stovetop and the old woman prepped the water pots for noodles and beans ("For dinner" was the only explanation).

For once Alfred didn't mind the silence, he was still getting used to being home and standing in some small sort-of-kitchen with the kindly old lady was just the right amount of too much that made him feel all warm. He was reconnecting, slowly, little bits at a time, by breathing familiar air and performing familiar tasks.

As the eggs came to perfection he felt at home for once in a long time. More batches of eggs piled up and soon the job was done as well. A watery, cold sun had risen and the breakfast hour approached.

He felt a presence at the open door way before the old woman did. He didn't acknowledge it, instead choosing to concentrate on the last little bit of egg left to cook. He was in the company of his people and has little to worry about so he zoned out on the task.

When he came back to himself the eggs were done and the two occupiers were staring at him – the new comer, a young man with eyes too old and a jean jacket looked at him expectantly.

"Say what now?" said Alfred and all three had a small laugh, each knowing the first had no idea what's going on.

"Come on," the young man said. "We're going to deliver the rest of the food to those on our front lines before Auntie can rope you into lunch duty as well." It took a minute for Alfred to realize that most of the food he'd cooked had already fed the camp save for this last little (in comparison) bit. It was still early but the morning was well underway.

"No problem!" Alfred said. "I'll be happy to help."

They passed through the door carrying the eggs and a pitcher of orange juice. In the main interior of the building Alfred noticed the makeshift sleeping quarters off to the sides. Clearly the area they're passing through doubled both as a dormitory of sorts and as a central meeting place. The floor had been cleared for now and there were some tables and chairs scattered about. Underneath all of the building's stress from having to function as the living space for too many people, Alfred was reminded of small store perhaps, in another life.

It reminded him a lot of the communal living some of his boys talked about back when the war first started, the reverent belief in one love, happy people, and licking the stamp, but the edges here were too hard to be that whispered reality. They were through the front door and into the main cluster of buildings before he could spare it another though.

"Hey, what did you say your name was?" Alfred asked. The silence with this person was not so comfortable.

"My name is not important," came the reply and they were back to saying nothing.

Alfred was left only to stare at the young man's back – at the patch that proclaimed Trail of Broken Treaties – and wondered just what the hell he'd missed all these years anyway.

They passed a few buildings; there were a lot of people about, some armed, most not. None paused to spare them a glance and Alfred opted not to comment on all the garbage on the ground and the occasional bit of graffiti on buildings. He caught snatches of frustration; talk of Crazy Horse and how it was a good day to die. The atmosphere was tense but relatively slow. Alfred wished he could stop to take his shoes off but he was carrying a large bowl full of eggs and it was a bit too cold out for that to be normal.

X

The young man and Alfred neared what looked to be crude trenches and bunkers. The gruffness of the men and women inside lifted quickly at the offering of food and drink. Though the embattlements Alfred could see the federal blockade looming in the distance. A few shrubs populated the no man's land between them and Alfred was surprised that they had not been burned yet for a clearer line of sight at the opposing forces.

The young man and Alfred made their way around similar holdings where folks were grateful for the food and did not take too much for themselves.

As they circumnavigate the hilltop Alfred spied his journalists talking to what appeared to be a sentry by the church on the hill. His rifle was clearly held together with tape and Alfred heard the sentry say he only had one bullet so if the feds came he could shoot himself or something. The journalists were talking notes and Alfred could see the headlines; "Wounded Knee Is a Tiny Armed Camp" – except without much in terms of arms.

There was an Indian flag on the church fluttering in the breeze and only enough eggs left for one person. The juice was gone. Suddenly the young man whipped around to stare at Alfred.

"Go give the rest of the eggs to the medicine man in the church, then bring the bowl back to Auntie – I've got fortifications to help with," the young man said. "Mind the elderly and mind the bosses and everything will be ok." The man stormed off before Alfred could even reply, leaving him looking a bit lost and a bit alone.

The reporters had moved off by now but the sentry at the door smiled a bit at him – the cold sunlight caught his eye and he noticed the armed man up in the bell tower staring off into the distance, holding their breath for a change to come. Alfred quickly made his way into the church and shut the doors quietly behind him.

Once again the building had been repurposed. The pews had been pushed to the side and tuned into beds. The altar was covered with religious artifact but not of the Christian faith. Alfred suspected the church was doubling as a field hospital as well if the smell of ancient medicines were anything to go by.

Unsure of who to give the eggs to Alfred stood awkwardly in the doorway. The scene before him was not a comfortable one but he did not feel deeply troubled by the mash up. Nothing had been destroyed, merely shuffled around. For a moment he envisioned an elderly priest aghast at the sight but his thoughts quickly reorganized at the feeling of soul-gazing eyes upon him.

A man who appeared to be every part the stereotype as his name suggested drew near from a secluded corner full of elders and those that held themselves with authority. They stared at this new stranger in equal parts distrust and curiosity. On the whole it was intimidating and unexpected but if it was this man's gaze that made Alfred truly feel small.

"Have you come to tell us that they'll be cutting the power again?" the man said. Well that couldn't be good, Alfred mused. Never to be one on the wrong foot for long Alfred smiled and thrust the bowl toward the medicine man. (Because now that Alfred took a good look, this man could be nothing but a medicine man.)

"Nope. I brought you breakfast!" Alfred said. The medicine man's gaze did not falter and he made no move to respond so after a pregnant pause Alfred barreled along. "'Cause you know breakfast is the meal of champions and I was told this last bit is for you so you should eat up, yeah?" Still nothing. "Unless you already ate breakfast which would be really awkwardly and everything and they can't go to waste so just tell me who to bring it to next before it gets any colder and honestly you should really eat up because I don't think there will be any more eggs for a while because we used the last of them up this morning and all so saver what you can because everyone else said they were good for just eggs and I'm not just saying that 'cause I made 'em and everything because that would be totally shallow of me and even though we don't have anything else to go with them like the awesomest pancakes in the world or bacon because everyone loves bacon but honesty eggs for breakfast isn't so bad and least it's not just toast although I would switch out the eggs for coffee if I could – we're outta that too by the way but I think you might've already known that too – so between you and me you should really go for the eggs 'cause there're the best we got and they'll fill you up because lunch and dinner were looking pretty sucky which is a downer but take it one meal at a time I always say and yeah."

Confusion briefly streaked across Alfred's face when he saw his rambling had unmoved the man before him. Almost every other person he knew would have cut him off ages ago.

"So," he said again. "The eggs?" Once again he thrust the bowl out, the eggs inside sloshed against the rim.

"The eggs are yours," the man replied with a thin hint of a smile. It was barely there but Alfred had lived with Arthur enough to call it like he saw it. It still didn't stop the ungraceful "Waa?" from coming out of his mouth.

"The eggs are yours. Come sit down." He gestured to the circle behind him and moved to guide Alfred along.

"I will not be your Black Fox," Alfred snarled with a bit more fire then he intended to show while shrugging out of the embrace. His temporary upset fizzled to guilt as the other pulled away in a placating gesture, the small smile still on his face.

"Come. Sit so that you can eat your eggs in company." The medicine man was more openly smiling now but made no move to corral Alfred again, keeping both the path forward and the path behind open to him. Shame licked deep in Alfred's gut and he could feel the blush on his neck and ears.

"Are you sure you don't want them? I'm not hungry," said Alfred. His voice drifted off at the end, refusing to meet the other's eyes, all too aware that there was a large group also watching the engagement.

"Please. You've worked hard in the kitchen all morning. Enjoy your meal on a chair with company. Please."

After shuffling his feet a bit and trying to rub down the blush on his neck, Alfred slowly began to move toward the circle of chairs. They walked in step together. The chair creaked as Alfred sat and a spoon was handed over. He wasn't kidding when he said he wasn't hungry but he moved to choke down the cold eggs.

In the circle he was not quite sure who was in charge of everything. There were a lot of big names floating around but people seemed open and agreeable. The medicine man, Crow Dog, as he found out was a steady, cautionary voice full of wary hope and promise. There were many others too but Alfred couldn't help but note that between the AIM leaders, the Oglala Sioux tribal elders and OSCRO folks, Russell Means could easily to be the poster child for getting folks to work together. Alfred though Means' voice helped with that. Means sounded like the modern reincarnation of something out of the past. Alfred liked it.

He didn't look up much but forced himself to take his time. The conversation flowed easily almost the members of the group. They talked of things Alfred had heard snatches of: problems of food, heating, electricity, water, ammunition. The tone was serious but there was very little finger pointing and Alfred began to relax.

Without thinking much of it he toed off his shoes and runs his foot along the old wooden floorboards. The action went largely unnoticed despite his feet being visible to all. The conversation lulled as he finished breakfast. One by one the individuals disbanded to further aid and direct the camp. As they said, it was a good day to die. But not on this day. The group's determination to hold strong in the face of such resounding adversity was palpable. But it came as no surprise either. History had never been easy and this group, despite every effort, they had yet to be beaten down completely.

Without so much as a preamble Alfred rose and headed to exit the building. He paused at the entryway and stripped off his socks instead of putting his shoes back on. He could feel the medicine man's eyes boring into him worse then any scientist ever studied an exotic animal. Alfred thought and felt and knew that this man knew. He knew but did not say and respected enough to not stop or question. Alfred let the burning, knowing gaze linger and then stepped out into the world. His feet were freezing but it could be no worse then the many folks without adequate jackets and he'd managed worse before anyways.

X

He spent the rest of the day clutching the serving bowl walking around the camp, occasionally trading small talk with others. His feet were still freezing but he could tell he was getting better and becoming more like himself as the time passed. He didn't stop for lunch or dinner. Despite his appetite returning he did not dare to drag on the camp's supplies anymore then he already had.

He spotted the medicine man a few times throughout the day and was granted with a large smile for one so stoic. This always seemed to happen after he'd spent a bit too long standing alone with his eyes closed, just feeling everyone.

Alfred didn't see the journalists until darkness fell. He could tell they were flushed from the success of a good day. They were brimming with ideas and stories and the desire to spread the word. And who was he to deny them this right? Soundlessly, the quartet set off with Alfred in the lead for the return trip. No one question Alfred's shoes tied around his belt loop at his side. He was not sure if in their heady musing they didn't notice or just didn't care that he's a bit cracked.

X

**Author's Notes:** Lots of people showed up to help the occupiers out. It was literally show up and get put to work with very little questions asked. If Alfred seems out of sorts for jumping right in and taking directions please remember he's been ordered around for a long time and is still not use to not being so and to be honest following directions is better then being shot at or turned over to the opposing side.

Please note that despite both the government and the papers going A.I.M. this and A.I.M. that, the occupiers were more of a coalition of groups then anything else. A.I.M. was more of a roving band of many different tribes that had numerous fingers in places, the Oglala Sioux tribal elders were from the area and felt the need to put their foot down in response to a variety of local grievances, OSCRO was a bit farther flung but still a mix of folks from the area and likewise felt the same. They all championed themselves as protectors of the people and basic human rights. The media usually only focused on A.I.M. and the governments nearly exclusively lambasted A.I.M. and ignored all of the other groups of the occupation treating them as one big entity.

Also, to keep this author's note shorter then a mini-essay look up Trail of Broken Treaties and the Andrew Jackson-era problem of Black Fox. "The Native American Issue" in America has been a long and ongoing one. Lastly, pardon one small portion of my headcanon on the classic Hetalia issue of who's in on the nation secret and who can tell without needing to be told.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – The Return**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The return journey was a surreal parody of their initial trek toward the unknown. There was still tension and anticipation. Death could be around any corner if the wrong sort caught them but it did not beguile the elated steps of the journalists in their knowledge and Alfred's sure steps as he picked their way through the brush and then the gullies and then the flat expanse.

The journalists did not think to question how their return was more expedient then before, unknowing that Alfred sinking back into his old haunts was to blame.

X

They made it back to the restaurant, long closed for the night. In the darkness the quartet paused for a final farewell. Hands clasped, knowing smiles were traded and a silent pact was made.

Nothing happened, no one helped, there was no sneaking, it wasn't them.

The men broke apart.

Words flew behind the eyes of the journalist – stories, layouts, cuts – all for the reader, the king of the print world. Alfred watched them drift off into fevered, black-lettered fantasies. It was too late to make today's papers but tomorrow should be a shock to the system.

X

With his shoes still off Alfred slowly meandered through the night back to his temporary quarters. If anyone were to question him he'd blame time zone differences and insomnia. He did just get back from a war after all.

X

The sun continued to sleep as a waif appeared vaguely illuminated by the B.I.A. lights still ablaze despite the hour. Window shadows showed movement as Alfred crept ever closer to the entrance. He was not sure if he should continue forward or simply stay out and enjoy the dirt between his toes. There was no hesitation though, just pause of passing thoughts. Eventually he would have to go inside. He'd have to clam up and face the hubbub.

In the darkness Alfred drew closer. He could see the arrival of cars and the night shifts' cigarettes burning a dull red orange in the black.

He was in though the back door before anyone noticed.

In the harsh hallway light he moved toward his quarters. The hallway was already dirty from so much heavy traffic in such a short amount of time so his encrusted feet did not overly add to the mix. The heating made his limbs prickle and for the first time in hours his feet were no longer comfortably numb.

His quarters were undisturbed and he grabbed spare clothes and redirected himself to the nearest shower. It was a sleepless night but now he had a fighting chance for regulating his body clock accordingly. He'd been away for far too long.

He ran into a few people but none spared him a passing glance.

X

The shower was blistering hot and he couldn't help but objectively think he cleaned up nice after his morning shave. The amenities in the building were less then spectacular but to him they were the height of luxury.

It was rations for breakfast but he didn't care. The confines of the metal and plaster and paint of his wall were all he could really think about. It was not a good thing for him to be thinking about.

He was tail spinning. He could recognize it as that but there was not much stopping it now.

He wanted to go outside. He wanted to go home. He wanted to talk to his friends because he was not so out of it to know he could see them. He was tired. He was hungry.

He was surrounded by his peoples and his military was squaring off against his people and he knew this was important and he needed to be strong and be the hero.

People must think he was crazy for staring at his room wall so intently.

The too old clock on the wall proudly proclaimed it was 7:00AM. The volume increase from the room next to door signaled that everyone was moving full tilt on how to plot and contain this situation. The sooner he could sort this out, the sooner he could leave.

He could do this.

X

**Author's Notes:** Another short transition chapter. Sorry. Alfred's head isn't cooperating all too well.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – More Problems**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

He would have backed out of the operations room if several other folks hadn't brushed him further into the space upon their entry. It was nothing short of chaos with too many different types of law enforcement and lawyers and others all squabbling "Indians this" and "Indians that".

His room wasn't looking so bad anymore.

A hand on the shoulder stopped his abrupt about face. He let himself be spun around to meet the very un-amused face of Trimbach. Alfred's face went slack in preparation for the ass chewing he knew was coming.

"Jones! Where the hell have you been! I was told that you would help. That you were the man for the job. That you would be our in for figuring out these yahoo insurgents," said Trimbach. The noise of the room mostly blocked Trimbach's fury but that didn't stop the man from yarding Jones even closer as his voice dropped to a deadly chill. "We have a group of terrorists on our hands threatening the sanctity of the United States of America and you drop off the radar for 24 hours without a word! What do you have to say for yourself?! "

Trimbach released his grip and Alfred took a moment to fix his wrinkled tie. He really hated ties.

"Well sir," said Alfred. The words were calm but did little to smooth Trimbach's ire. "You wanted me to help with negotiation." His conversation partner turned a bit purple but Alfred quickly plunged on. "Look, you said you wanted my help but I can't do that until I know what's going on. I've been trying to get a feel for the situation and I couldn't do that by sitting in a debriefing room fielding information or reading the news. I'm sorry for disappearing but you can't expect to drop a solder who hasn't been in the country for years into this madness and not expect me to need some time to get my head wrapped around it."

The earnest statement made Trimbach deflate significantly. The hard edge was there still but it was clear that it was not directed at Alfred but at the situation that had gone on too long and seemed to only get worse. With a gusty sigh Trimbach responded.

"Fine. But don't do it again. You'll be going to the negotiations today but since you missed yesterday I expect you to shut up and listen as opposed to proposing anything. You're a consultant not a negotiator today. Listen, read the situation, tell us if you see some stupid Indian thing you can exploit or if they're double talking us like always. Got it?" An affirmative nod. "Good. The team is outside getting ready to leave. Now get."

And Alfred did just that. He hustled outside and met up with a number of folks who all seem to know him but he didn't know them and it was a parade of names and backgrounds and negotiation ideas and he just sort of shut it all down in favor of studying the cold breeze on his face and the patterned clouds in the sky.

March 5th ended in a blur as the negotiation went nowhere and everyone left frustrated.

Alfred didn't even get the opportunity to sit in on them, instead being relegated to a location outside of the enclosure in no man's land. It was a fruitless day and the only thing to say about it was that the temperature dropped again leaving Alfred to wish he had his trusty bomber jacket or a blanket or something. This was the only point he conceded to the team late into the night at the final debrief of the day. He left when one of the off-duty blockade guards started making cracks about small pox blanks.

X

Alfred spent most of the night in a vague half-sleep sate dreaming of chasing rabbits on the ceiling while the irregular sound of gunshots rattled in the too-close distance.

X

The morning of the 6th passed in much the same manner. Negotiators were determined to mete out a ceasefire.

The night was punctuated again with firefight.

The next day, again Alfred remained outside, listening but not really hearing. Fed up with both the stalemate situation (they couldn't even keep up a decent ceasefire agreement) and Alfred's seeming ineptitude in the post-negotiation breakdown, he was finally placed in the negotiation tent.

It was still the same old crap. Both sides accused the other of breaking the previous agreements. Things got heated. People were frustrated.

After a particularly nasty shouting match Alfred leaned forward and gently told one of his negotiators to calm down because yelling was not working. It was quietly done but everyone heard. The reminder helped a bit and the conversation resumed again.

Alfred was hard pressed to pay attention and absorb any information.

He was doing his darnedst not to yawn (or worse, to fall asleep) but he was exhausted and oddly more at home then he'd ever felt too long a time. In his distraction he missed how the Indian negotiators, Means and everyone else that he met only days earlier, seemed to light up a bit on this day.

The session ended with a firm ceasefire in hand and the strongest contemplation of decampment at the promise of probing the various human rights issues in the area and the failing reservations system. Alfred's team was so overjoyed at the sudden headway after gridlock that they didn't question how out of it he seemed or how shaky the grounds of the recent agreements were on. They didn't know any better and were high off the first of what they hope to be many victories to come.

Alfred retired early and slept like a rock. The night was undisturbed.

X

The next morning it was not bullets or terror that broke Alfred from his stupefied state but a very loud argument outside his door.

With next to no thought of appearance, Alfred emerged to investigate the ruckus. A shorter, somewhat portly man with a buzz cut was chewing out the negotiators. Alfred recognized the man as Dick Wilson, the elected official for the Pine Ridge Reservation, giving Mr. Lyman a fierce dressing down.

"You sir, need to work on you crisis control management! The media is swarming the area for this circus show. Those outsiders are playing you all for fools and yet you continue to cater to them. They're posturing up there and this should be no big deal at all!"

Lyman responded with, "I'm working with my resources the best that I can but there isn't a protocol for this sort of thing. Besides with the ultimatum in place it will all be over by tomorrow."

"What ultimatum?" Alfred cut in. He didn't like the sound of that at all and it made him nervous that everyone seemed smugly pleased with the response.

"The occupiers have been told that they need to be out of the town by this evening or else," said Mr. Lyman.

_Or else_.

The words reverberated in Alfred's head and it was all he could hear.

It was not too hard to imagine what the "or else" could stand for, what it brought, what it meant. But it couldn't happen again, it shouldn't happen again. Alfred refused to let it happen again – not in this century. The pains of the past needed to be left in the past but the "or else" was the key that could unlock an onslaught.

Alfred thought of the people on the hill, the men, the women, young and old, the blacks and Chicanos and whites and other Native America tribes that had flocked to support this endeavor.

Not to them. Never to them.

The government couldn't stand for that._ He_ couldn't stand for that or for the destruction and death and pain and loss of faith in him by him that that "or else" stands for. An ultimatum. A call for slaughter.

There would be no repeats. No call to slaughter. He couldn't let that happen.

There would be no Wounded Knee Massacre II.

"No," Alfred said. It was weak and barely there but it was enough to redirect the focus towards him again. "No." More firmly this time. "That proposition cannot be allowed. We cannot afford to have a repeat of the past occur here. We are better then this. We can negotiate. It doesn't have to be this way. This – this is not an edge you want to jump off of. This is not the way to solve things. Surely you understand that?"

Alfred's eyes flared as he shook with the strength of his outburst. Some in their audience – for he had caught the attention of all with his outburst – seemed chagrined at the statements.

"You cannot," he said again, a touch more calmly. Yet the disapproval on Wilson's face was set in stone.

"See here!" Wilson said. "This is what they're doing. This is what they're trying to accomplish. None of their protests have been working so they come in with a big show. You're playing right into their hands! Things are fine here, the system isn't broken – they're nothing but troublemakers with nowhere to go giving us Indians a bad name. Attention mongers they are, that's what I say. If you had listened to me in the fist place and let me have my way, we would not be in this mess. But no. You needed to pussy foot around and by doing so have catered to their every whim. They think they have a sense of entitlement now."

"Don't you understand?" Wilson continued. "All of America is watching! And the world is watching too! The more attention you pay them, the longer they'll drag out the process. Nothing would be happening if the media weren't here. There would be no story to tell. But you've let the press in and now those outsiders think they're hot scuff and they'll fight us at ever turn until you have no choice but to do something stupid. People watching them is their only power, it's the only thing saving the movement from obscurity and here people like this idiot" – he gestured to Alfred - "Are convinced by the media to cater to the rebels. Get the press outta here and the rest of America will leave!"

Wilson's insults didn't affect the number of folks he had swayed to his argument. The media wouldn't leave because there was a story here and the story wouldn't die out because the media was here and Alfred had helped encourage the media in his quest for answers.

Still, for Alfred at least, the conversation had been largely overshadowed by an endlessly looping newsreel of horror and death. He was too close to this place and it hurt.

He didn't want to remember but who could forget Wounded Knee? The tragedy, the body count – all on an endless cycle in his head! A misunderstanding and the fatal result. A government and a people at odds with nothing but bad outcomes and blood everywhere else.

The grotesque past shifted to now – a modern day superposition of the old horrors and skeletons dancing on Alfred's shoulders.

It was all too much and he couldn't.

He just couldn't but he couldn't move either.

And, oh god, the bodies and the people wouldn't let him be and wouldn't let him go and only the buzz of the overhead lights could separate the then and now but only just. Everything was too bright and everything was too hard and he, he couldn't. He couldn't, he couldn't.

He searched the faces of the room but they had returned focus to other things, to other thoughts, to the ultimatum. The death knell of so many rung out but few listened to it. Instead their own would force the occupiers from the town, consequences be damned. It was a good day to die and Crazy Horse wouldn't leave him be and his people wouldn't let him run and he couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't. It was clear that no matter what he said nothing would sway them.

He's lost.

It's over.

Death was coming.

X

**Author's Notes:** This is probably the heaviest chapter of the whole fic. I've also done you both a favor and a disservice for presenting Wilson and his point of view on things at this time. What he says is really, really valid. He cuts through a lot of the posturing and garbage floating around all sides of the engagement. He also was the direct cause of a whole host of problems in the first place that prompted the occupiers to act in the way that they did. Pretty much the government side of things and the occupier side of things really, really, really didn't care for him or his policies at all. The more you dig into his side of things the more you realize that everyone is their own protagonist. This does not excuse his actions by any means, but if you ignore his position on what is going on you miss a good part of the story. Along a similar line of thinking, Lyman doesn't get much of a role in this story or in the general history that you can dig up on the event. He probably had a larger role then he is ever credited for (be that good or bad is mostly undecided). Most would probably liken his actions in similar terms as an individual describing a rush job on renewing their passport (bureaucratic hell on earth let me tell you) or spending more then 12 hours at DMV (also not fun at all).

Lastly, "the ultimatum" was an actual thing during this event. For those of you that don't know the Wounded Knee Massacre happened on December 29, 1890. It's one of those historical clusterfucks that we'll probably never full be able to figure out but essentially after a long while of angsty tension between the government and the Sioux Indian groups that has tons of books written on it in it's own right, the 7th Cavalry (that's the US Army folks) surrounded a group of Indians – many of them Ghost Dancers (a very, very interesting development in it's own right) – to try and head off yet another confrontation in the area. Something happened between one of the Native Americans and one of the soldiers and shots were fired. Prevailing theory is that the Native American refused to surrender his weapon and the spooked soldier attempted to seize the weapon. In the struggle it discharged into the air and because everyone was at such a high intensity trigger point all hell broke loose. Most of the Native Americans had freely surrendered their arms as a token of good faith (or at least so that they wouldn't have their accompanying women and children killed) so you can imagine that it was quite the slaughter. Average estimates put the death toll at 150 Native Americans (some sources double or triple the number) and 25 cavalry dead. It should be noted that most of the killed Native Americans were women and children. Again the average thinking is about half of them but many say more. At the end of the massacre – which early newspaper reports claimed as a full on battle – the bodies were buried in a mass grave/trench. Ironically just below what would later become the hilltop where the Sacred Heart Church (the church Alfred visits in this story) was built. The massacre was also sort of the last big huzza between the government and the Plains Indians during this time period. As you can imagine, many people absolutely flipped out when the papers reported the government stance changed from "please leave, we will negotiate with you to leave, so leave now" to "leave now or else." Many papers dropped journalistic nonpartisanship to decry such a move. Letters to the editor exploded. Many thought there was no way it could happen in this day and age but many others dropped the threat in line with many of the problems America was facing at home and abroad and if we could do the nasty stuff we did in Vietnam why wouldn't they kill all the occupiers when the time limit was up. Worse still, mostly everyone could tell you that nearly everyone occupying Wounded Knee would be willing to die for the cause and not back down making the threat a very real, very viable problem. Naturally the whole thing has America freaking out. (And why many schools today will deal with other things like the Vietnam War or pretty much anything from the African American Civil Rights Movement because even though those are some sticky issues, it's still a heck of a lot "more comfortable" or "easier" to gloss.)


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Boredom and Bunkers**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

He came to himself again in the bathroom.

The porcelain of the toilet seat was cool beneath his arm.

The lights buzzed overhead.

He'd rather not think about what his mouth tasted like right now.

He let awareness slowly creep into his body.

His mind stayed blissfully quiet.

X

Just outside the door was a change of clothes so he got in the shower and spent an inordinate and wasteful amount of time cataloguing the many characteristics of the tile grout.

He vowed silently never to be gone from home so long again.

He felt pathetic and – he cut the thoughts off right there.

The passage of time was denoted by the slow cooling of the hot water. It was ice by the time he thought to get out.

He stayed in longer anyway.

X

There was an aid in his room when he emerged. He didn't feel ready to face the world but let it never be said he couldn't act like a pro.

"Hi," Alfred said. He felt pretty dead inside but there was no point in raining on anyone else's parade. This guy didn't deserve putting up with his kind of bullshit.

"Can I help you?" said Alfred. Light and friendly. There was never anything wrong with light and friendly. Alfred could exude light and friendly. He was the master of light and friendly.

"Actually sir. I'm here to go with you on our tour of the government fortifications on the perimeter. "

"Oh. OK. But I though I was part of the negotiations entourage for this assignment?"

The aid winced a bit at that, his posture screaming uncomfortableness and a somewhat melancholy air was pushed in Alfred's general direction. Alfred wondered what he missed. Then he decided he didn't particularly care.

He's not going to question why the room was so unorganized or why the clock from the wall was in a pile of dust and bits by the desk. He especially wasn't going to ask about how long he's been … away. Or how many people were mad at the lack of hot water.

"Yes well, there's been a change of plans," said the aid. "I don't know why." It's a half-truth as far as Alfred could tell but he'd roll with it. There's no sense in bringing a cloud into his sunshine and daisies persona right now so it was all water off of a duck's back at the moment.

"Alright then. Lead the way Henry," Alfred said with a smile.

The other quirked a brow, "The name's Raymond. Not Henry."

"Alright Sunshine, brighten my day and take me away, to see all we can see." The awkward tension vanished at the joke and they both had a light but in depth conversation about the lack of manners in this cold iceberg.

X

The topic and airiness lasted them until they approached the fist of many fortifications.

Alfred's mood plummeted as he observed the men milling about – armed to the teeth with semiautomatic rifles, night-vision goggles, and other advanced weaponry and technology.

There was an armed personnel carrier at this station but all Alfred could see in its place was a tank and the burned out husks of the nearby shrubs. The mood soured further as Alfred and the aid stumbled into the trench and Alfred couldn't shake the feeling of being back halfway across the world in Vietnam.

It sucked and he didn't know if the façade he hastily constructed would weather this review well, not that he would not try his best.

For all his misgivings Alfred found himself easily sliding into the resigned boredom of bunker talk. The fist stop was entirely taken up by cold weather grumblings, projections of snow, and the small pin-ups on the support beams.

The next review was more of the same. At the stop after that Alfred was treated to a tirade about how the issued weapons were not free-firing but single shots because of the safety catch that couldn't be removed or disabled so the reporters needed to can it. Sitting amongst crates of ammunition Alfred sill knew it was not a fair arms match but was pulled to the next stop in their circuit before he could say anything.

X

They were halfway around the loop and the boredom exuded by the ring was cloying and heavy. This was the kind of boredom that led men to talk and they were fussier for it. While the unifying subject was along the lines of scalping the rebels for a taste of their own medicine and other such statements, conversationalist were quick turn on each other as well. Between the FIB, the federal marshals, state marshals, Bureaus of Indian Affairs police and the reservation's volunteer forces (fondly referred to as Wilsons' GOON squad), there was tension all over the place.

The chain of command in the field was riddled with problems and every time Alfred and the aid came across a mixed staffed position (nearly all of them) each side was quick to inform him of the problems with those they were serving with.

As it turned out the all-Indian GOON squad got the worst rap for violence and insubordination. It was their home and their problem so all other should butt out Alfred learned at one roadblock. This stance included turning away or appropriating medical supplies from the Red Cross for the elderly and formula for the small children in the camp.

Alfred and the aid also skirted a checkpoint where reporters were clamoring to get in to see the continued negotiation efforts and to talk to the side beyond the blockade. The police politely but gruffly said no, the GOONs said they were welcome to pass the checkpoint but would be shot on sight if they did.

The entire day passed similarly.

Frustration, misunderstanding, miscommunication. All eyes were trained on the opposing lines, watching, waiting, calculating, but not a shot was fired and not a move was made.

"Wait 'till the night rolls around," one marshal said. "Then the monotony stops and things get real. Until then, there's nothing but boredom and bitching around here."

"If the weather were nicer we could sunbathe," said another. "But I'm freezing my nubs off here."

"The rations totally suck," was a constant complaint.

A few were grateful for some overtime pay to watch nothing in a hellhole.

Many unhappy people surrounded many other unhappy people. By far Alfred's highlight as he crashed into bed that night was the talk of puppies. One marshal had spotted a pregnant dog and was scheming to get her pups for the bunker. ("It'd be better entertainment then the Indians that's for sure.")

X

It was more of the same for several days.

Morning and afternoon touring the circle, evening typing up how much of a crock the whole thing was. There was occasional commotion around. Talk of injuries, the cold, and the failure in negotiations. But the threat of the ultimatum had somewhat seemed to dissipate.

Alfred stayed away from it as best he could and no one sought him out to help with things. It was cowardly he knew but he just couldn't deal with it right now. So he listened and tried to block it out but listened even more anyway. Half the time even people in the know didn't know what was going on. Ceasefires came and went. The roadblocks lifted and closed ranks again.

Everyone on every side was holding strong to something but with no idea as to what that was or who was opposing an idea or not. The press churned out fire and brimstone complete with pictures despite the media bar. The situation was not getting any better.

X

The morning of the 12th brought its own particular brand of hell for Alfred. Horror crept down his spine as he read though the day's articles – FBI shot, whites turned back at gunpoint, independent nation declared. He sat dumbfounded in the meeting room.

This had not been in the cards; this had come out of nowhere. This could not be happening. Were things truly so bad that this tiny pocket of resistance would break away from the United States?

It could not be true. The media must've gotten it wrong.

But a picture was worth 1000 words and you couldn't argue about a man with a gun approaching a lineup – sure he was getting ready to march them away but that angle made it seem like an execution lineup out of one of the World Wars. No one would stop to read the article so it was damming.

Ramifications of an earlier failed ultimatum came crashing onto the heads of those in charge. The gridlock just got worse and would continue to get worse.

His aid came to find him but took one look at the picture and blanched.

Even if the mentions of independence were lost amongst the rest of the news and cries for basic human rights Alfred had become hyper-attuned to them.

They didn't want him.

They were throwing him away and it hurt but he knew why. No matter how deep he tried to hide it, he knew why.

He had failed them and they wanted out.

He didn't totally lose it like last time.

He _was_ getting better. But he was off his game enough for the aid to leave him alone for the foreseeable future.

He spent the day listening again. Most of it were just reports of frustration at everything.

X

By the next day most had agreed – this had going on too long and everyone – especially America – was looking bad. The reporters kept badgering everyone and circled like vultures.

The new strategy was simple. This had turned into an actual siege. Sure the press said it was before but now that was the actual game plan. Now the government, the full force of the government, meant it for real. The ultimatum didn't work because the stakes were too high and too vague but there was nothing saying that the U.S. forces couldn't wait them out.

Tighten the noose. No one entered or exited and A.I.M. and the insurgent would fail. Cut off from supplies and food and ammunition and the media limelight and they'd give up. It would be like a giant house arrest. Wait them out; run them out of steam – boring but effective and easy. Under the pressure, capitulation was assured, negotiations would go forward and this thing would be naught a footnote in the history books.

Alfred hated it – especially because he was under house arrest too.

He was not sure how he got on the outs with the folks here but he was not supposed to leave the building anymore. They were watching him too.

He had plenty of time to think of how that particular kettle of fish snuck up on him – maybe one of the journalists squealed, or someone saw them, maybe it was clear he was a little too invested in the area or the people were been thrown off by a solder's non-violence stance. More likely it was because he'd failed at every task they set for him so they were just cutting loses now before he messed anything up again.

It was not long before Trimbach came to find him.

"You're moving out this afternoon, Jones," he said. It was a sudden statement but not entirely unexpected by the way he'd been shut out really.

"Where to sir?"

"Some sort of conference. New York. 'Sall I know."

The conference. Crap.

Leave it to Alfred to completely forget about the world conference after a few hectic days. With his attentions on the war he hadn't gone to one in years but they usually fall around the same time every year so it really was pathetic that he's forgotten. Even after Arthur warned him not to too. He felt a pang of longing when thinking about that particular conversation again but didn't dwell on it too long for Trmbach was still standing there in front of him.

"Alright. Thank you," Alfred said. He pointedly turned back to the paper's crossword puzzle despite Trimbach hesitating in the doorway.

"Look kid," Trimbach said. Alfred did not look up. "You're alright. Get your head screwed back on straight and maybe you can make something good of yourself." He turned and left.

Alfred worked on his puzzles and wondered why he was only now being contacted about the world conference if his government was expecting him to go.

Maybe with the conference and the return of regularity his life would settle down then. Nothing beat the routine madness of a world conference to snap somebody out of a funk. He was apprehensive to leave the area but there was nothing he could really do here.

X

All too soon he was herded toward a car and then onto a plane at the same airport that not so long ago witnessed his first true welcome back to the country.

X

**Author's Notes**: I'm sure if this event went out in the previously proposed blaze of fire and brimstone every one of you would know about it but it didn't so you don't and part of me is exceedingly glad (at the lack of death part not the ignoring of the issues present part). Another one of those funny, not funny things is that during this whole event the papers referred to the engagement as the Unites States vs. the occupiers. Very rarely did this happen to any American group of people in newspapers (obviously outside of court cases). The only other times in history that you see this type of phrasing being used is when it is a country-to-country problem. Just a little food for though. Also, Wilson's forces did actually call themselves GOONS. At this point I'll leave you to ponder the implications an elected official has for having his own personal task force for protection and coercion.

Alfred's involvement in this story is almost over…although the engagement is far from done.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 – Decision Time**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The news stand was nothing special.

It was old but not too old. The man behind the counter had been a newsman for some years and his father before that. It wasn't a glorious job but it was a good location for a newsstand so at least it was somewhat lucrative.

All sorts would pass by – tourists, businessmen, women with prams on a daily shop. The stand had a fairly wide selection – lots of east coast, some west coast and international newspapers and even a few small, local beats on the shelves. For all his experience at the stands though, the newsman had never quite encounter a character like Alfred.

Alfred F. Jones as introduced, recently returned from abroad, job in international politics despite his seeming youth, carefree, smiling but a bit quirky, never shut up if you got him talking about something he's interesting in, showed up early every day and skimmed all the papers, ever single one, cover to cover, even the ad pages, never bought a single one but handled them with such care the newsman didn't mind, didn't bug anyone else but said the papers didn't have enough information in them, particularly interested in South Dakota and all that Indian mess going down. Said if it was not in the papers, it was like it never happened. Some character that one.

"I'm sorry sir but there's not enough information here for me," said Alfred.

"Is that so? What'cha gonna do? Find some other news stand?"

"No sir. No finer news stand then this one here. But for the answers I'm looking for I have to seek them myself. Things are bad out there and coverage is getting less and less everyday. The papers are only teasing me right now. 'Sides, if I leave now I'll be back for the conference."

"If you're sure."

But he didn't respond. Instead, Alfred F. Jones ran off the direction he came.

X

Alfred booked it back to the hotel while planning out all that he would need. His boss hadn't told him much since he'd gotten to New York. World Conference on the 20th; Matthew was hosting because he'd been off the grid for so long but his boss insisted it be here in New York because it was technically his turn. Everything had been taken care of. The itinerary and talking points were the same as always. Piece of cake. His speech had been prepared for him and everything.

There hadn't been much for Alfred to do but sit and stare at a different wall and worry about the South Dakota situation. He couldn't help but think of the women and children and elderly freezing out there, bellies staved out by the very government sworn to protect them and aid them on their way to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Well Alfred was a hero and it might have taken him a while but he wouldn't stand for that sort of hell any longer. The last reliable intel he got said the negotiations were stopped due to snow. He'd live off the grid before. He knew what the occupiers needed and could sneak it in if necessary. Even what little he could carry in would help.

It would be a quick trip. There and back. No funny business. With a mental list of supplies to buy, Alfred grabbed the keys of one of his many government issued cars that had been delivered to the hotel upon his arrival.

He hit up an ATM and went on a buying spree. Before long he was armed with medical packs, blankets, and lots of nonperishables. Without further delay he set off for South Dakota. The smile on his face finally reached his eyes.

X

**Author's Notes:** Wouldn't you know Alfred tends to be a person who will poke and prod and finagle until the situation resolves one way or another? _Let It Be_ was probably written for him. We'll find out what Alfred's big plan is next, in the third to last chapter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 – Copper is My Least Favorite Alloy**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

The spring sun shined down in New York and Alfred felt once again like every inch the hero he was supposed to be. The radio blared when he was in a station's range and New York flew behind him. He drove and became no longer tired. He relished seeing the land up close after so long. Life was good.

The ground beneath the wheels flowed before him and ribbons of asphalt stretched in a complicated network of life-giving arteries to the country. America was a patchwork land but a land completed by ideals, dreams, and movement. Hustle and bustle. Always on the go.

The drive felt more like home then anything. To go out and see spring life coming to term after a long hard winter. To see the snapshots of a citizen's day, to join the fray of the morning commute.

Alfred drove and drove and reached the fist of many milestones – the Pennsylvania border. In total the trip would only take 24 hours and 49 minutes of solid driving he estimated and he was flying along (although he'd literally be flying back to make it to the conference in time).

The border drew away but not before familiar light flash in the rearview mirror. He was not speeding so he must have a taillight out or something. Safety first and all that.

He quickly pulled off and rolled down the window as the cop approached.

"What seems to be the trouble officer?" Alfred said. He was met with a no-nonsense face and swallowed nervously. He was not doing anything wrong but no one ever truly forgets the '20s and its lingering sense of distrust with authority figures. He hadn't felt it this strong in a while and he hadn't been pulled over in a while either. Alfred's growing unease mounted as the cop looked around him and into the back where all of his surplus supplies were thrown haphazardly.

"You sure got an awful lot of stuff back there."

"Uh…"

"You going to South Dakota?"

"Say what now?" Ok, so it was not the most intelligent come back but Alfred really didn't like where this conversation was going. He could taste the dread creeping out of his stomach.

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to step out of the car."

"What?! Why? I haven't done anything."

"Sir get out of the car."

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Alfred whined as he exited his car.

"In accordance with federal law I hereby charge you with crossing sates lines in order to exacerbate civil unrest and riot. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law."

The cuffs came down and Alfred was roughly hustled into the back of the police car. Fortunately he kept silent, dumbstruck at the recent turn of events.

He couldn't help.

He couldn't be the hero – the night in shining armor saving the day with basics like food and supplies.

It was a bit much to take in.

Federal law – he hadn't even known. No one told him. This wasn't in the papers at the news stand or in his talking notes for the conference. What the hell had his boss not been telling him?! He couldn't believe it.

X

The ride was fairly short and the cop didn't spare him a single glance until he was being forced out the car and into a small holding cell. They hadn't even taken his name yet so he couldn't use his status to get out of the situation. Damn it.

"Hey. Don't I get a phone call?" Alfred yelled to the empty area.

X

An hour went by and Alfred was left stewing at the loss of opportunity, at the people out in the snow hanging on the edge of nothing but still not giving up despite it all. He was mad at himself for so many reasons but sat quietly in the cell knowing that eventually he would get his phone call.

When he was finally collected and brought to the phone he did not hesitate in dialing the most familiar number to him. It was a number he could slur out drunk, high or concussed easily. It rang and rang but he knew that Matthew didn't have to leave his house this early to reach the conference yet so he was bound to be there.

On the 7th ring his brother picked up.

"Hello. This is Matthew. How may I help you?"

Alfred wanted to start talking right away but paused and waited for Matthew to repeat the statement in French because he would get upset when interrupted. The smarmy bastard. "If you would like to have a conversation in English please say 'yes.'" The same was repeated in French again.

"See. This is why nobody ever calls you," said Alfred.

"Alfred?! I can't believe it's actually you! How are you? Where are you? Why haven't you contacted me before now?"

"Well."

"Alfred. What did you do?"

"Pennsylvania jail just across the New York boarder. Small, uh, brown, lots of holding cells. Spring me loose?"

"Of course. Not even in the country for a fortnight and you're already in the can."

"No worse then hockey season bro."

"Ha, ha. We're having a long talk when I get you out. OK?"

"Sure sure."

"See you in an hour."

"See ya then."

It was a short phone call but it made him feel fantastic despite having to return to the cell. It had been so long since he'd heard his brother. So long. Too long. Just like everything else really.

Honestly, he was excited to see Matthew. He couldn't wait – even if it meant getting chewed out for not answering all of the mail that he didn't know he was receiving. He tried preparing himself for the encounter. He hoped he could handle the mental shock.

No time and all the time passed. Alfred's fingers tap out an uneven tattoo – something reminiscent of Tin Pan Alley that made zero sense off a piano.

X

**Author's Notes:** So the border-crossing thing was an actual thing. And they literally didn't tell anyone until they started arresting people. Depending on the state you could be looking at a few hours to a few weeks in jail. Most people didn't realize until someone thought to tell the newspapers, which flipped out accordingly for not knowing about something like this. Also, for those of you that wondered about the odd phone call opening – I blame the I Am Matthewian Project (which you should totally go check out). Lastly, to be honest, who hasn't thought about the nation representatives in jail and other run-ins with the law. There're so many possibilities and headcanons for that sort of thing too. Penultimate chapter next.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12 – A Look into Normal Life**

**Warnings and Disclaimer:** See Chapter 1.

X

No one entered the room until they came to get him out. He could tell he was being sprung because they had a grumbling air about them but weary of someone who was being pulled out due to diplomatic immunity. If they had only run his license they would have found that out much sooner and saved themselves all the fuss.

But it gave Matthew a reason to come down early to see him. Which was awesome. Everything had a sliver lining.

"Mr. Jones." Alfred perked up at his name as the cop from before entered the room. "I'm here to release you as long as you guarantee your compliance with federal law. Should you attempt to cross state lines again in a manner similar to your arrest you will serve the full sentence."

"Sure sure. Of course. Just show me where to sign officer. I truly did not know."

"Ignorance of the law is no excuse to break the law."

"Right."

The cuffs came off and Alfred was led out the front to the main lobby. Through the doorway he could see Matthew talking to a harried looking secretary. Alfred was paraded up to the desk but made no move to call out to his brother, instead taking in the sight of him.

Matthew was wearing street clothes – jeans and a patterned sweater. On anyone else the knitted monstrosity would look tacky and it was years out of style but it gave Matthew a cabin-going mountain man look. Alfred thought it was like urban camouflage or something. Underneath the cuddly, unassuming exterior resided a true badass that you didn't want to mess with. As he drew near Alfred could pick out the well-defined musculature of his brother's figure hidden beneath the ugly garment only truly visible if you knew what and where to look. His wavy hair was just like Alfred remembered. He really just wanted to run his hands though it to see if it was as silky as he remembered too.

For Alfred it was a sight to behold akin with finding an oasis in the desert. Not even the nasally voice of the secretary could detract from the moment although hearing his brother's voice instead would have been a slice of apple pie heaven.

Despite Alfred's slowdown at the sight of his brother the cop propelled him forward. Same old routine. Sign the papers and skedaddle.

"Sign these," the cop said as he reached behind the counter for the papers. Both the secretary and Matthew started a bit – the secretary at his stunning good looks and Matthew because sense when had his obnoxious little brother been able to be quite enough to sneak up on him?

The papers were quickly read and signed. It took a bit longer then it would've for the normal person but Matthew knew it was just Alfred's particular brand of paranoia to do so. He was more concerned that Alfred hadn't even spared him a glance the whole time. It was not like him and Matthew frowned.

"Here are your keys and directions to the impound lot sir," said the cop. "Have a nice day."

"Thank you," Alfred said but he was not focused on the words. His brother's reassuring body heat at his side was much too distracting for him.

X

Without fanfare they both left the station in perfect step with each other. Matthew led Alfred to his older-but-still-perfectly-functioning-thank-you-very-much car.

Before Alfred could get in Matthew pulled him in to a bone-crushing hug, which was returned with equal force. They embraced in the parking lot trying to convey 10 years of emotions left by the absence of a constant presence. The hug contained everything that should have been said but never was and all that was missed during lonely days and lonely nights.

It was a good hug.

Alfred buried his face into this brother's shoulder and breathed. He told himself he was not going to cry but wasn't sure he managed as the warmth from the hug seeped into his bones. Neither wanted to pull back but soon reality began to creep in around the peripheries of awareness.

They were in a perking lot in full view of a security camera and random people bustling though the day. Neither was quite sure who broke the hug and both wanted to take it back but couldn't without seeming to too horribly awkward.

"Hey," said Alfred. It was a pathetic opening bid but they both smile at the attempt.

"Hey yourself," Matthew said back. His voice was light but gruff. It disappointed Alfred because he knew that it was from disuse – Matthew didn't pester people so the calls he gets were few and far between when Alfred was not around, particularly after any form of "winter hibernation" period. Alfred was snapped out of his musings my Matthew's next question.

"Do I want to know?" he said arching his eyebrows and nodding at the police station behind them.

Alfred chuckled and replied, "Nope." Popping the "p" in just the right combination of cheeky and obnoxious that underlined not wanting to be messed with. Mathew shot him an amused but exasperated look.

"OK then. C'mon lets go," Matthew said. And just like that he dropped it.

One of the greatest things about Matthew, Alfred thought, was that he only pried at the right moment and he put up with Alfred being Alfred.

It had gotten the point where nether had to explain much upon a jail retrieval. Where most people had a vacation fund jar, the brothers' had a bail fund jar instead.

The rest of the world would probably do a spit take if they knew how often Alfred wound up in the slammer. They'd pass out if they knew Matthew always doubled that number every year (during hockey season).

Alfred wondered who'd been picking up the slack while he'd been away.

Matthew opened the passenger door for Alfred like he was some kind of princess. Alfred responded with a distasteful snort but in reality his heart soared at the usually hated token gesture. It served to reaffirm the normalcy of the situation.

Matthew turned on the car and they both nearly jump out of their skin when the radio blared to life. They both scrambled of the controls and managed to turn it down and then shut it off.

"Shut up," Matthew said with a slight blush staining his cheeks.

"I wasn't gonna say anything."

"Sure you weren't."

They fell into companionable silence.

Matthew didn't ask questions and Alfred for once was perfectly content to simply absorb his brother's presence. He didn't want an information overload again.

They hit a main road and Matthew asked if Alfred wanted to pick up his car from the impounder.

"Naw," said Alfred. "It was one of those government ones not mine. They can retrieve their own car when they feel like it."

"Wasteful," Matthew retorted under his breath but Alfred heard and responded.

"Spread the money around."

There was eye rolling and silent glances tossed back and forth but they soon settled once again.

Alfred complained when Matthew took the back roads to the conference because it was so much longer but rescinded his argument when they found a fantastic Mom-and-Pop diner for lunch.

They talked for some time of small things like the food at the diner, the weather, Matthew's car. Of familiar topics that stayed well away from uncomfortable subjects and sticky issues they knew were there. They talked of big things sometimes too, of sports, the upcoming conference, things Alfred had missed.

"Arthur called," Matthew said suddenly. "He said that –" he swallowed loudly. "That you didn't get any of our mail when you were … over there." They were both cringing and this was not a conversation Alfred wanted to have right now (or right ever).

"He tried to explain it to me," Matthew continued. Matthew's fingers drummed on the steering wheel and Alfred fingers clenched into his trousers. "I was really mad you know." Alfred looked ashamed at Matthew's omission. But Matthew was not done yet.

"I still am mad," said Matthew. Alfred felt like his insides were plunged in ice. "But. But not at you."

Alfred knew he should say something but he didn't know what.

"Yeah," Alfred started but had to clear his throat. They were having a chick flick moment and he wanted nothing to do with it. "I know it was weird but I moved around a lot and lag time and we were busy, but, yeah."

They both knew the excuse was pathetic, just – at least now they both knew that they were both hurt by the lack of exchanges. It was as good as it got though and the conversation drifted back to more steady ground.

It didn't make things much better but at least they knew where the other stood. They would have to have more conversations at a later date but not now. Not while the words were too fresh and the experience so sharp in their mind's eye. This would not dampen their first meeting after a decade apart but the small headway did help clear the air, if only a bit.

X

By nightfall they approached New York City. Because Matthew was a master at back roads Alfred hardly noticed until they were right on top of it. Matthew for all his quintessential Canadian-ness and somewhat skewed view of American happenings had given Alfred a fairly decent rundown of what had been going on with both him and the world at large while Alfred had been off the grid.

The smarmy bastard even managed to imply that Alfred's absence was part of the reason for so much upheaval in the past few years. Alfred though was most interested in the music he'd missed and decided that it will all be immortalized forever as awesomeness and iconic and unforgettable. Matthew ribbed him a lot about Arthur and England's musical explosion in America after that statement.

X

**Author's Notes:** Lots of subtle headcanons in this chapter. Also, complain all that you will but I firmly believe that APH Canada is the single hardest character to "get right" in the entire show. Hopefully I didn't glom him up too bad. (Then again it's difficult for anyone to write a character who knows the person they're interacting with are not on the straight and level emotionally or mentally and is doing their best to be normal but be supportive while also doing their best to try and understand yet mask the hurt over the whole thing that they feel over the problem in general.) I also have a big soft spot for fluffy fluff of any kind even if I had to railroad it a little bit with general historical/story angst. North America brothers all the way. Last chapter next – thank you in advanced for getting this far.


End file.
